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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26673283">Pragmatic</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/beccastanz/pseuds/beccastanz'>beccastanz</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Accidental Voyeurism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Anxiety, Ben Solo Needs A Hug, Ben Solo is Not Nice, Ben Solo is a Mess, Biting, Blood Imagery, Blood and Injury, Breathplay, Bruises, Choking, Cunnilingus, Dark Comedy, Degradation, Degrading Language, Depression, Discussions of methods of suicide, Drug Use, EMPHASIS ON THE DARK, Emotionally Repressed, Everyone Needs A Hug, Everyone Needs Therapy, Exhibitionism, F/M, Face Slapping, Food, Free Use Kink, Handcuffs, Humiliation, Kidnapping, Knifeplay, Light Masochism, Light Sadism, Masturbation, Mentions of Blood, Misogyny, No Pregnancy, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Not Safe Sane and Consensual, Nudity, Oral Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pain, Painplay, Power Imbalance, Rape, Rape Fantasy, Rape Roleplay, Rape/Non-con Elements, Restraints, Rey Needs A Hug (Star Wars), Rich Ben Solo, Rough Body Play, Rough Kissing, Rough Sex, Rude attitudes toward women, Safe to Read if Triggered by Pregnancy, Snoke is a Big Ol Dick, Suicidal Ideation, Suicidal Thoughts, Switching, Teasing, Time Skips, Under-negotiated Kink, Unreliable Narrator, Vaginal Sex, Verbal Humiliation, Voyeurism, cavalier discussions of suicide and rape, discussions of eating, everyone is just very confused okay? Author included, exercise, food used as a bargaining chip, is it Stockholm syndrome if she’s immediately chill with it?, murderer Ben solo, rapist Ben solo, rey has a sad past, rey has an iud, rey has an unstable living situation, rey is in debt, so much teasing oh god Ben is not ready, the comedy will come from so much sarcasm and a befuddled Ben, working out</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-05-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 10:22:19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>18,372</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26673283</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/beccastanz/pseuds/beccastanz</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Ben kidnaps Rey.</p><p>Rey doesn’t seem to mind.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Kylo Ren/Rey, Rey/Ben Solo, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>811</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>881</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Pepsi and Pals' Hardcore Kinktober Challenge</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/midnightmorningcoffee/gifts">midnightmorningcoffee</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>So, here we are! This idea came to me a while back, and to be honest, I have no idea how I am going to pull it off. But, I’m going to try! After you’ve read the tags, and then read them again, and then read them a third time for good measure, I invite you to join me on this journey! I’ve tagged the big themes that I know will be included that readers may find triggering. Please pay special attention to the “suicidal ideation” tag. Our Ben and Rey are going to talk about a lot of things, very frankly, even lightheartedly, and I want everyone reading to be safe and prepared. If I miss a tag or you’d like something tagged, do not hesitate to ask!</p><p>Please be warned, the rape/noncon tag is in effect for this entire story. There will be varying tones that color the sex scenes in this fic, but given the circumstances of their coming together, it is all rape. The tone will oscillate greatly and often. Please take care of yourself, and never feel obligated to read something. Also feel zero guilt reading something! Read what you want to read, don’t read what you don’t want to read, and don’t feel guilty about any of it! That’s the gist!</p><p>I have no set update schedule or idea of length for this fic. Given the subject matter, I will need to be in the right headspace to write this one. Hopefully that’s ok with you guys! I plan to do some time skips/flashbacks/etc. as we go, just so everyone’s aware.</p><p>I don’t currently have a beta for this one, but feel free to DM me on Twitter if you’d like to help out!</p><p>*big exhale* Here we go!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He’s been watching her for months. His dear. His little skittermouse. </p><p> </p><p>Always going, always quick, place to place with efficiency and an awareness he looks forward to subverting when he finally takes her.</p><p> </p><p>Even from streets away, he can see the sunken depths of the circles beneath her eyes. Perpetual. Unforgiving. Seemingly bypassed through sheer force of will and bottomless anxiety and the coffee he watches her steal from anywhere she can get it. A gas station, a Starbucks with a line out the door that makes it easy to swipe someone’s mobile order, sometimes even a careful hand as someone sets down their cup for a brief moment on a bench. She takes what she can get. </p><p> </p><p>Soon, she will take him, deep in every hole. It’s lovely to think that she has no idea what’s coming. </p><p> </p><p>She is beautiful, he thinks, in her skittishness. Always desperately afraid of <em> something— </em>what exactly, he can’t be sure. But it doesn’t matter.</p><p> </p><p>His cock swells every time he imagines that fear turned on <em> him. </em></p><p> </p><p>He watched over time as she went from a small studio apartment and several college courses and work at a garage and an acquaintance or two, to missed classes and more shifts and sleeping at a women’s shelter. Then a different one. Then the apartment of a shifty looking man. That didn’t last long, and soon she was oscillating; one shelter, then another, sometimes broken up by a night on the floor of the garage—at least, he assumes so, since he’s never seen more than a single ratty old chair in his secret visits.</p><p> </p><p>He’s watched her break, slowly, torturously, and he can’t wait to finish the job. </p><p> </p><p>Of course, it would be nice if he didn’t have to end things. But it’s not like she could be released back into the wild once he finished with her.</p><p> </p><p>No. He would give her purpose, and give them both release. </p><p> </p><p>————</p><p> </p><p>He waits as long as he can, underskilled hands holding a plunger as he waits. He’d prefer not to drug her, far more comfortable with a knife than a needle, but she’s not as easy to coax as the others. He had to stop finding them through his job, too suspicious once more than one woman disappeared. </p><p> </p><p>She is even more beautiful up close, freckles and pale skin begging for new marks to add to her collection. Sad, panicked eyes he wants trained on him. She’s moving between places today, the path unmarred by passersby. </p><p> </p><p>In the end, it’s almost too easy to step out of the alleyway, feign a bump into her shoulder, and deposit the needle into her neck. It’s ridiculously quick, and a hand over her mouth muffles a yelp of surprise. </p><p> </p><p>She’s so light as he bundles her into his car, taking her home. Her final resting place.</p><p> </p><p>————</p><p> </p><p>His source told him she’d be out for hours with what he gave her. </p><p> </p><p>Apparently, he needs a new source. </p><p> </p><p>They’re halfway to his house when she starts to wriggle in the backseat, unintelligible murmurs escaping her. </p><p> </p><p>Ben does not usually panic. He is a smart man, cool, collected, with a steady, high income deemed unnecessary by his trust fund. He can filet a chicken or a man without breaking a sweat.</p><p> </p><p>But he likes to plan. And this was not in the plan. </p><p> </p><p>He pulls over, an empty gas station providing enough cover for him to retrieve another plunger. </p><p> </p><p>At least he’s an over preparer. </p><p> </p><p>When he climbs into the backseat, she’s still mostly out, and he has to resist the temptation to just pull down her worn out jeans right then and there. She looks so peaceful and blissed out and he’s waited so fucking <em> long </em>to have her. But he can’t risk it.</p><p> </p><p>He settles for a brush of his knuckles down her cheek, and her murmurs turn to a chuckle.</p><p> </p><p>As he prepares the sedative, he watches her snuggle deeper into the blanket he’d wrapped her in upon their first real touch. </p><p> </p><p>Then, she forms words, a sing-song tone.</p><p> </p><p>“Cooooozy. ‘M so cooooozy. Goooooood blanket. Soooooooft.”</p><p> </p><p>Her voice is sweet and accented and panic-inducing because she’s supposed to be passed out. It’s also making him hard because he wants to hear that gorgeous voice begging him to stop.</p><p> </p><p>Her eyes are still closed, so she doesn’t see the needle coming. </p><p> </p><p>Her lullaby ceases, replaced with soft snores that are nearly as sweet.</p><p> </p><p>He wills his erection away, and continues to drive them to his salvation.</p><p> </p><p>————</p><p> </p><p>His home is secluded, as he prefers it. He likes his privacy. He needs it, for his preferred extracurriculars.</p><p> </p><p>Sometimes there are willing women, ones who will act out what they think is his fantasy. But it’s never quite right—they fight too hard, or give in too easily. They have no spirit, no strength of will. It gets boring. </p><p> </p><p>Even the unwilling ones have been—</p><p> </p><p>No. </p><p> </p><p>No. </p><p> </p><p>They are enough. They have to be. Otherwise, it’s all for naught. </p><p> </p><p>Otherwise, what was the point?</p><p> </p><p>He can’t risk getting bogged down in semantics, can’t risk wondering why the thrill had worn off, why it just wasn’t enough—</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> No. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Rey. She would be enough. For a bit. For now. Until he needed another.</p><p> </p><p>But already she feels different. </p><p> </p><p>There’s no time to contemplate the feeling, though. Not when he finally has her in his bed, warm and pliant and all to himself.</p><p> </p><p>He strips her, slowly at first, in an attempt to savor the moment. Their first time. There will be many more before he’s done with her, he knows. He will not deprive himself of the chance to hear her scream. </p><p> </p><p>But there’s something about this, too. Knowing she can’t resist, no matter what he chooses to do to her. Her face is soft in sleep, perpetual frown lines and tightened jaw all relaxed thanks to his care. She should thank him.</p><p> </p><p>He never did grow soft again after her murmurs in the car, which means the second that she is naked and sprawled out for the taking, he’s stripped and inside of her within 30 seconds. It’s a tight fit, perfect, warm, a vice grip. He can nearly pretend it’s on purpose, that she’s gripping him—</p><p> </p><p>No. He is taking it. He is taking her, and she has no say, and he loves it. He does. It’s getting him off, the slow drag of his cock inside of her, her brow starting to furrow, breaths coming a bit faster even with the sedative.</p><p> </p><p>Then, she opens her eyes. This time, she does not sing. She looks half aware, her mouth making a perfect little “O” that he wants to thrust his cock into. Perhaps next time.</p><p> </p><p>How could he think that he wanted her passed out for their first tryst? Her initial look of shock sends a rush through him, and before he knows what he’s doing, he’s pulled out, flipping her over on her stomach before entering her again, pressing her cheek into the pillow. </p><p> </p><p>He must be imagining the fact that it’s easier to slide in now.</p><p> </p><p>He can still see her face like this, just enough, eyes half lidded, little pants of breath pushing out between squashed lips and a bent nose. Then, she starts making noises, and it’s as if everything locks into place.</p><p> </p><p>Rey is finally beneath him, writhing in agony—he feels his cock swell more than he ever thought possible at her pained cries. She’s strong enough to push past his induced haze, but not strong enough to resist him.</p><p> </p><p>And now, she’s stuttering “don’t, don’t, don’t,” and he nearly comes right there, until he hears her go on—</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t stop.”</p><p> </p><p>His thrusts cease.</p><p> </p><p>What the <em> fuck? </em></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thoughts? Feelings? Predictions? Drop a comment and/or let me know on <a href="https://twitter.com/beccastanz">Twitter</a>!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>So she walks toward him, toward death or breakfast.</p><p>Either way.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Welcome back! Another short chapter. I think they will remain around this length, though I am not positive. I hope you like it, and a reminder that all tags are in effect, including suicidal ideation and knife play.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He’s frozen.</p><p> </p><p>Rationalizing.</p><p> </p><p>It’s the drugs, surely, making her warm and pliant and amenable and <em> fuck is she...dripping? </em></p><p> </p><p>She lets out a little noise that sounds like a huff. He’s still hard inside of her, and then she makes a little movement with her hips and mumbles something like <em> whyyyyy’d you stooopppppp </em> and he <em> breaks. </em></p><p> </p><p>He keeps up the mantra in his head, <em> the drugs it’s the drugs it has to be the drugs </em>as he resumes his pounding of her into the mattress, this time with a hand clasped over her mouth to muffle what should have been screams. He crushes her jaw beneath his hand and it works.</p><p> </p><p>Mostly.</p><p> </p><p>Except he can still hear the tiny whines caught in her throat, breathy little things that his cock can’t make sense of. </p><p> </p><p>So he switches tactics.</p><p> </p><p>He moves his hand from her mouth to her throat, applying a pressure that’s made every other woman’s eyes widen in fear. Rey’s eyes widen too, just a little, but the fright only lasts a moment. Then, it’s replaced with what can only be described as sheer glee.</p><p> </p><p>He comes, unexpected and mind numbing as he empties inside of her, marking his territory. What is usually quite simple now feels entirely earth shattering.</p><p> </p><p>When he pulls out, her throat relinquished, she collapses on the bed with a whine, seemingly unable to move anything except for her perfect little mouth.</p><p> </p><p>“Not niiiiice,” she murmurs, and despite it all, he’s intrigued, watching her smack her lips together with a lethargy he can only dream of.</p><p> </p><p>So he prods, positive that she won’t remember this tomorrow, positive that she will wake in the morning, entirely scared out of her mind, fear and tears clutching his cock the next time he fucks her.</p><p> </p><p>“What’s not nice?” He asks, gripping her chin until her cheeks bulge under his thumb and forefinger, her neck twisted so he can look into her drooping eyes.</p><p> </p><p>“Didn’ cooome,” she manages, before finally, blessedly, passing out against the pillows.</p><p> </p><p>It catches him off guard, that even in a state like this she could admonish his selfish fucking.</p><p> </p><p>A bubbling feeling close to respect is shoved down, far away, in favor of handcuffing her to the bed frame.</p><p> </p><p>Surely, in the morning, things will be different.</p><p> </p><p>Normal.</p><p> </p><p>————</p><p> </p><p>When Rey wakes up, she is immediately struck by several things.</p><p> </p><ol>
<li>She is somewhere she’s never been.</li>
<li>Her cunt is sore and leaking cum.</li>
<li>Her arms are cuffed above her head.</li>
<li>She is naked.</li>
<li>She desperately needs to pee.</li>
</ol><p> </p><p>Clearly, someone has taken her and put her here, and clearly, whoever it was didn’t realize that a pair of handcuffs are no match for a scrappy girl with a full bladder and a bobby pin. </p><p> </p><p>In the end, it’s only about ninety seconds between her waking up and her sitting on the toilet. She’s surprised no one’s burst through the bedroom door yet. Though she’s not an expert in kidnapping, she’s pretty sure whoever grabbed her did not intend for her to escape the cuffs.</p><p> </p><p>Well, she saved them from having to change the sheets at least.</p><p> </p><p>Biology served, she is soon made aware of her empty stomach. It’s normal these days, but she can’t help her curiosity about where she is, who she’s with, and if there might be food somewhere.</p><p> </p><p>A quick look in the mirror reveals a couple of small needle marks in her neck, and a hint of bruising to match.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Oh. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Bits and pieces float back to her.</p><p> </p><p>A needle. A blanket. A cock—the biggest she’s ever felt, soreness justified as she remembers. A hand, stealing air. Denial.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Who was he? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> And how long did she have? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>With a huff, she remembers she doesn’t care, and decides food is worth the risk.</p><p> </p><p>Uncaring of her nudity (nothing he hasn’t seen already), she is surprised to be met with an unlocked door.</p><p> </p><p>Though, her captor probably didn’t intend for her to get up.</p><p> </p><p>When she opens it, she’s met with a short hallway, leading to a kitchen.</p><p> </p><p>And a man, sharpening a knife.</p><p> </p><p>She’s not exactly sure of the proper etiquette when greeting the person who is likely to end your life, so she goes with a safe bet.</p><p> </p><p>“Morning!”</p><p> </p><p>The look in his eyes could almost be considered comical, were it not immediately replaced with something she can only describe as murderous.</p><p> </p><p>“How—what—”</p><p> </p><p>He sputters long enough for her to see a bowl of cereal on the counter, an empty stool in front of it.</p><p> </p><p>So she walks toward him, toward death or breakfast.</p><p> </p><p>Either way.</p><p> </p><p>————</p><p> </p><p>She is naked and unafraid of the blade in his hand, and seats herself directly in front of him, helping herself to the cereal he was waiting to become the perfect amount of soft.</p><p> </p><p>He could kill her.</p><p> </p><p>“So, what’s the deal?” She garbles around a mouthful of frosted mini wheats, back facing him, smooth and bare and begging for marks—</p><p> </p><p>He recovers.</p><p> </p><p>Barely.</p><p> </p><p>“I—the <em> deal?” </em></p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, the deal,” she repeats, still facing away, still shoveling her face full of his breakfast.</p><p> </p><p>He composes himself. This is...unexpected, to say the least. But he has a knife, and all the power, and she belongs to him now, for as long as he’ll allow her to breathe. So he figures he should tell her as much.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re mine now,” he explains, adopting his more sinister tone like a second skin. Usually, this is the point where they start screaming, begging him to let them go, or be gentle, or <em> just kill me, please. </em></p><p> </p><p>Rey says none of those things.</p><p> </p><p>“Okay.”</p><p> </p><p>And she shovels another bite of cereal into her mouth.</p><p> </p><p>“I—<em> okay? </em>That’s it?”</p><p> </p><p>He sees her shoulders move up and down. A shrug. A fucking<em> shrug. </em></p><p> </p><p>“That’s it.”</p><p> </p><p>“You’re not going to scream at me? Try and escape? Beg for your life?”</p><p> </p><p>He’s never been this inquisitive, but then, he’s never been confronted with something like this. He won’t trust her answers, no matter what they are, but his curiosity has been piqued despite himself.</p><p> </p><p>She snorts.</p><p> </p><p>“You vastly overestimate my penchant for life.”</p><p> </p><p>Her accent colors her words with a gorgeous pattern, grays and deep reds and intoxicating in its bittersweetness.</p><p> </p><p>And yet the words haunt him.</p><p> </p><p>He goes back to his knife, sharpening the blade and his strategy. The doors are all locked from the inside, so even if she tries to make a surprise run for it, she can’t.</p><p> </p><p>It’s a small comfort as he reevaluates.</p><p> </p><p>And then, she keeps going, as if the silence offends her, and impedes any of his ability to understand what’s happening to him.</p><p> </p><p>“Can you blame me for trying to make the best of a fucked up situation?” Rey asks, nonchalance and biting honesty piercing his soul. “You’re either gonna kill me or keep me, clearly we both like it rough—”</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t say that,” he bites, turning away to continue sharpening his knife. He needs something to do, something to distract—</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t say what? That I like it?”</p><p> </p><p>He can’t help the twitch. How can she cut so deep without trying? He’s the one with the <em> fucking </em> knife, for crying out loud.</p><p> </p><p>“Can’t get your rocks off unless someone’s screaming at ya, huh?”</p><p> </p><p>She’s fucking teasing him. Why does he <em> like </em> it? Why does he feel the need to shift in his stool—</p><p> </p><p>“Or maybe,” she continues, an unfamiliar mischievousness behind her eyes when he looks up to see she’s turned to face him, “you’ve convinced yourself that’s what you need, but all you really want is a woman who can take everything you give—”</p><p> </p><p>“Shut the fuck up,” he bites, seething with an iron grip on the knife, now sharp enough to slice with ease and <em> oh, </em>it’s against her neck now, pressing with warning against the delicate skin.</p><p> </p><p>Her spoon clatters in the bowl when she drops it, the ping echoing in the vast kitchen.</p><p> </p><p>“Did I strike a nerve?”</p><p> </p><p>“I said shut up,” he warns, but it’s undermined by the bulge at his front that he knows they can both feel.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m not so good at shutting up, clearly,” she responds, a minuscule shift in her hips nearly imperceptible—except that he was eager for it.</p><p> </p><p>He presses the blade a bit harder. He knows she can feel it now, teetering between life and death under him. This is power, he thinks, holding a life in the palm of his hands.</p><p> </p><p>He’s never considered how it might feel to choose life for someone.</p><p> </p><p>He has to pull back, has to regain his ground. Insubordination won’t do, and neither will considering the potential truth of her words.</p><p> </p><p>He yanks the stool out from under her, forcing her on tiptoes to balance against the edge of the island, knife at her throat, still gloriously naked from the night before.</p><p> </p><p>“Are you scared, little one?” He whispers in her ear, feeling her tremble beneath him. Is it fear or want?</p><p> </p><p>Maybe both.</p><p> </p><p>He chooses to believe it’s fear, until—</p><p> </p><p>“Not really,” she responds.</p><p> </p><p>He’s awestruck. Dumbfounded.</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t particularly care if I live or die. Not sure how much longer I would’ve lasted if you hadn’t snatched me,” she says matter of factly, as if she’s not redefining what he thought a person could be.</p><p> </p><p>He can’t think about that now, not when she’s warm and naked and making a damp spot on his thigh. </p><p> </p><p>No, best to save contemplation for another time.</p><p> </p><p>When he pulls down his shorts one handed to position himself at her entrance, he has to stifle a moan at the surrounding slick as he thrusts between her thighs. When the head catches at her hole, he’s met with nearly zero resistance as he pushes forward.</p><p> </p><p>They’re never this wet.</p><p> </p><p>Why is she so wet?</p><p> </p><p>Why does he <em> like </em>it?</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>So, what are you thinking? Leave a comment and/or find me on <a href="https://twitter.com/beccastanz">Twitter</a>.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>He presses the knife deeper than ever, and both of them still for a fleeting moment.</p><p>“Did I say you could do that?”</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I’ve added a few tags, please review them before you read! The tags are there to warn you! I think I’ve captured everything so far, but if I ever miss something, please let me know and I will add it.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>He bottoms out with a single thrust, her chest bent over the kitchen island, her toes barely grazing the floor, and her neck tempting his knife.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They moan in unison, and he catches himself craving the noise more than he craves painting the counter red. It’s just so </span>
  <em>
    <span>raw, </span>
  </em>
  <span>torn from the very throat he now controls. She sounds unhinged with it, a feeling he can relate to, a feeling he desperately tries to shove to the side as he grasps for dominance.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>One hand holding her life, the other her hip, he makes another thrust, choking back his own moan in favor of hearing her again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s guttural, has him swelling in the wet warmth of her cunt until he can feel her clench around him even tighter. It’s blissful, and confusing, and erotic, and he doesn’t know what to do with it except thrust again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And </span>
  <em>
    <span>again.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She’s shuddering beneath him, her elbows now braced against the countertop. It lets her push back against him and that, </span>
  <em>
    <span>that, </span>
  </em>
  <span>her active participation in the fucking that could end her life that prompts him to speak.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I could—kill you—Rey.” He sounds breathless to his own ears, eking it out between thrusts. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Weak. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But the threat has been made, and he puffs out his chest with the pride of it, and he flexes the hand with the knife again, making an indentation in her skin. But no blood.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Not yet.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Please,” he hears, gasped from her lips, and again, he’s given pause as he fucks the beautiful enigma that was meant to be a short distraction.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What was that, little one?” he whispers, resuming his thrusts, landing a bite to her earlobe for good measure. Another threat. Another promise.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Surely she can’t mean—</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Please, please do it,” she gasps, pushing back against both his cock and his knife. “I’m fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>begging you.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>If his cock was hard before, it could cut diamond now—that is, if he could even stand the thought of exiting the most delectable cunt he’s ever felt.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She begs more beautifully than the others, but it’s so </span>
  <em>
    <span>different,</span>
  </em>
  <span> her desire for a release supremely warped and twisted. He can no longer decide if he wants to give it to her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>In the meantime, he keeps thrusting. It would be a waste not to.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t know how to respond with words, not even sure the thoughts swirling through his head could be considered anything close to coherent.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>All he can do is deepen his thrusts and move his arm to press the knife against the empty canvas on the other side of her neck. She whimpers in the moment between its release from her skin and the press to her previously untouched side, and he wonders if she was saddened at the temporary loss. Something makes him feel proud—perhaps his ability to both give and take. He cages her in with his bent elbow over her chest, a graze of his heated flesh against her nipple eliciting yet another moan.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’s close, ready to fall over the edge at her little whimpers and gasps, so much closer to what he envisioned and yet so far away from what he expected.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>please please please</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She whispers it like a mantra, and he remembers </span>
  <em>
    <span>don’t don’t don’t, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and he nearly loses himself with lust until he sees her move one arm off the table, guiding a hand between her legs.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Something in him snaps—</span>
  <em>
    <span>control her control this she’s yours don’t let her—</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He presses the knife deeper than ever, and both of them still for a fleeting moment.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Did I say you could do that?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She snorts </span>
  <em>
    <span>again, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and he tries not to like it when it makes her clench around his cock. He’s barely able to stifle his own moan in the name of composure.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“If I’m going out, I’m going out with a bang,” she replies simply, and starts to circle her clit.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’ll punish her later, he reasons, when he resumes his thrusts. He keeps the knife at her neck, so precariously balanced. Rey doesn’t seem to give a single fuck that the pressure could tip easily into a slice.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He supposes she meant it when she begged him to <em>do it,</em> when she expressed her lack of zest for life.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It pains him in a way he can’t understand, and he especially can’t understand a single thing in the universe when he feels her clench around his cock in ecstasy.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She throws her head back when she comes, canting her head away from his blade, instead tucking it into his chest as she rides the waves of pleasure.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her entire body pressed into him in a show of bliss sends him over the edge, and he finds himself glad of her new position, unsure if he would’ve been able to control the movement of the knife against her neck as he spilled inside of her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He tries not to analyze the fact that he no longer wants to see her bleed.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Well, at least not </span>
  <em>
    <span>too</span>
  </em>
  <span> much.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When he comes this time, it feels as though it lasts forever, the aftershocks of her orgasm coaxing more and more from him until it’s so much, too much, and he drops his knife with an echoing ping of her cereal spoon.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He realizes almost immediately that she could reach for it. He’s quick, even in a post-orgasmic state, but she could still try.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So he hauls her back, grasping her wrists and pulling her flush against him as he settles back into his stool, his softening cock still inside of her as he restricts her in his lap.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They’re both panting, trembling.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’s grateful not to have to look into her eyes. He feels entirely discombobulated, like he hardly knows up from down. The only thing he knows for certain is that whatever he might find if he looked upon her in this moment, he would find himself entirely unprepared.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You didn’t do it,” she whispers, disappointment coloring the words.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It hurts him to hear it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Hurt.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A familiar enough feeling, and yet the context has him reeling.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No, I didn’t,” he replies simply, hoping his confusion is well hidden. “I’m not done with you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She leans further back in his lap, seemingly content with her trapped position against his chest. He might even dare to say that she </span>
  <em>
    <span>likes</span>
  </em>
  <span> it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What’s your name?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She’ll be dead soon, he reasons.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ben.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ben,” she repeats, like one does when they commit something to memory. When they don’t want to forget.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He bites her shoulder, just for something to do with his mouth that isn’t voicing every thought currently clouding his judgment.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She lets out a small gasp and he feels her clench around his oversensitive cock. The slight pain lances through him like a shot of expensive liquor: smooth, rich, </span>
  <em>
    <span>burning.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He craves it again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well, Ben,” and </span>
  <em>
    <span>wow,</span>
  </em>
  <span> she really doesn’t ever allow for silence, “whatever the fuck you gave me yesterday made me tired.” He hears her yawn and knows she’s being honest, the slump of her shoulders exuding exhaustion. “Can I go back to sleep?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Something lances through him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Protect her.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Fine.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He finally pulls out, a mixture of her wetness and old and new cum covering them both.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Mine.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He kicks off his shorts where they’ve pooled around his ankles and carries her back to bed with an arm swept under her knees and the other at her back. When he feels her nose at his neck, he tries to ignore the deepening feeling in his chest.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He lets her use the bathroom before cuffing her back to the bed.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“How’d you get out this morning, Rey?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“A magician never reveals her secrets,” and she manages a wink before stifling another yawn.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She looks so sweet like this, arms above her head, lids softening under the surrender of sleep, naked body burrowing deeper into the sheets. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sweet enough that he can’t resist the urge to run a hand through her hair.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And he finds the bobby pins. Just a few. Enough to know that he’s underestimated her. Pride bubbles as he removes them, and he sees her contentment turn into a pout.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You got me,” she whispers before sleep takes hold again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’ve got you, indeed.</span>
  </em>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Comments are writing fuel and I promise to always respond! I can also be found on <a href="https://twitter.com/beccastanz">Twitter</a> for chatting/predictions/general Reylo fuckery. Please share your thoughts! Chapter 4 is gonna get a little...interesting.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Her expression softens, and he finally takes stock of her body in a new context.</p><p>She’s hungry.</p><p>He supposes, in a way, they both are.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This chapter is entirely Ben’s POV. Next chapter will primarily feature Rey’s.</p><p>I’ve added a few tags, please reread them!</p><p>Special thanks to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenOfCarrotFlowers/pseuds/QueenOfCarrotFlowers">QueenOfCarrotFlowers</a> for letting me ramble plot ideas into her DMs and for her support and encouragement as we go on this journey!</p><p>Art gifted by the absolute angel (pun intended) <a href="https://twitter.com/ang3lview">ang3lview</a></p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p><br/>Ben is not used to feeling out of control.</p><p> </p><p>It irks him, crawls under his skin the moment he closes the bedroom door, Rey’s faint snores muffled by the wood.</p><p> </p><p>What type of woman has he brought into his game?</p><p> </p><p>He tries to remember what he’s been taught.</p><p> </p><p><em> “They’re just whores. Filthy little useless things. Well, not entirely useless. You can use </em> <b> <em>them</em> </b> <em> , at least. Fuck them ‘til you’ve had your fill. But that’s where their use ends. And when you’re done, you dispose of them. Just call if you need my help, dear boy. Can’t have you getting caught, you’re far too valuable.” </em></p><p> </p><p>He tries to remember.</p><p> </p><p>He tries.</p><p> </p><p>He’s <em> been trying. </em></p><p> </p><p>It’s been working, too. Right?</p><p> </p><p>He tamps down his savior complex and uses them for what they’re good for, despite the instincts that scream to the contrary. His instincts are wrong, and Snoke is right.</p><p> </p><p>Snoke is right. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Snoke is right. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>He repeats it in a daze. Is he whispering? Who knows. He returns to the knife, movements synced with the mantra. It’s so sharp already but he keeps going, the movement as close to soothing as he’s ever been able to find.</p><p> </p><p>A feeble part of him suggests that comfort may be closer than ever before. But that’s impossible.</p><p> </p><p>Comfort cannot be found in the fleeting.</p><p> </p><p>Rey is fleeting.</p><p> </p><p>He will kill her, someday. Eventually. Soon, even.</p><p> </p><p>It would just be wasteful to hasten.</p><p> </p><p>When the knife couldn’t possibly get any more deadly, he takes a shower, a lingering fizz of arousal consuming him as he washes off their combined spend from his cock. It twitches in interest. He denies himself, still reeling at his new reality. </p><p> </p><p>Besides, it’s not like she’s going anywhere. Even if she somehow escapes the cuffs again (the thought of which angers him. This is anger, right? The feeling coursing through his veins?), every window and door is locked from the inside. She would tire quickly, having no choice but to wait for his return, wait for him to shove her back down into the mattress and take what he’s owed—</p><p> </p><p>He’s gone from a twitch to half hard in a matter of moments, and he turns the water to cold in retaliation.</p><p> </p><p>It’s still the weekend, so once he’s slipped into his jeans and long sleeves, he’s confronted with an open afternoon.</p><p> </p><p>He could wake Rey, but…</p><p> </p><p>It feels wrong to disturb her. He’s done enough to disturb, surely—</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “They’re just whores” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Useless” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Fuck them ‘til you’ve had your fill” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>He’ll wake her. Soon.</p><p> </p><p>In the meantime, he might as well cook something good for lunch.</p><p> </p><p>He sets about the methodical process of making his tried and true beef stew—a bit heavy for his usual lunchtime tastes, but then again, his breakfast <em> had </em> been stolen.</p><p> </p><p>The process is nearly instinctual at this point, so he allows his mind to wander as he browns and sautées and simmers. She’s everywhere in his mind, all at once, invading his senses like no other.</p><p> </p><p>He sees her squished cheek against the mattress as she begs him not to stop.</p><p> </p><p>He sees her naked form gliding through his kitchen, unafraid—</p><p> </p><p>No, not unafraid. Absolutely <em> uncaring. </em></p><p> </p><p>Her cavalier demeanor awakens something in him that he chooses not to examine.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Prote— </em>
</p><p> </p><p>He chooses. Not. To examine.</p><p> </p><p>He can practically feel the clench of her cunt around him as she climaxed, dangerously teetering against his knife, an extension of himself, erotic in a way nothing else has ever been. He wants it again.</p><p> </p><p>He will take it.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “...‘til you’ve had your fill” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>He hasn’t, yet. So he can keep her for now. He practically has permission.</p><p> </p><p>The hours pass quickly through his musings, and by the time the fragrant aroma of the finished dish permeates the air, he hears her.</p><p> </p><p>“Ben?”</p><p> </p><p>Her voice coats his name in bittersweetness that he wants to taste over and over again.</p><p> </p><p>“Ben, I have to pee.”</p><p> </p><p>Okay, perhaps that was not exactly what he was hoping for—</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Stop hoping  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>He moves to the bedroom, keys in hand, to release her.</p><p> </p><p>He’d almost forgotten she was naked, but spread over the sheets, arms above her head, he is instantly reminded. He tries to hide the shudder in his breath as he takes in her form again.</p><p> </p><p>Then, she lifts an eyebrow, a silent urge.</p><p> </p><p>He moves to let her go—quickly, but not too quickly. He’s in charge. He could make her wait, make her beg for it, make her plead and whine and—</p><p> </p><p>She darts to the bathroom the moment the cuffs release.</p><p> </p><p>He stands, paces, waiting for her return. He feels outside of himself, befuddled, consciousness in disarray.</p><p> </p><p>When she comes out, she’s still naked. </p><p> </p><p>He likes it that way. He decides that if she asks for clothes, he will say no. Because he can.</p><p> </p><p>For a moment, they just look at each other, eyes locked in an intimate embrace. There is no sound but their breath, syncing, deep.</p><p> </p><p>“What’s that smell?”</p><p> </p><p>She’s not what he expected.</p><p> </p><p>“I made beef stew.”</p><p> </p><p>She’s <em> more. </em></p><p> </p><p>“I—could I have some?”</p><p> </p><p>She sounds hopeful, fearful. Beautiful.</p><p> </p><p>“You may.”</p><p> </p><p>Her expression softens, and he finally takes stock of her body in a new context.</p><p> </p><p>She’s hungry.</p><p> </p><p>He supposes, in a way, they both are.</p><p> </p><p>He leads her to the kitchen. She hasn’t asked for clothes, just sleep and food. The bare minimum.</p><p> </p><p>It lances through him; has she ever had this?</p><p> </p><p>When he ladles the stew, he watches her eyes widen at the pour into the bowl. She tracks the movement like it’s the most thrilling thing she’s ever seen, and his gut aches. He fills her bowl to the top, and slides it across the table with another spoon.</p><p> </p><p>Could a spoon be a weapon in her hands?</p><p> </p><p>He makes his own bowl, and they eat in near silence, save for the moans and sighs from Rey as she shovels the nearly boiling stew into her mouth. She eats like she’ll never eat again. He remembers he could make this her last meal, if he wanted to.</p><p> </p><p>He wants to.</p><p> </p><p>He <em> wants </em> to.</p><p> </p><p>Right?</p><p> </p><p>He can’t read her expression through the meal. She looks lost in thought when he can catch a glimpse, and it’s only after she’s licked the bowl clean with that gorgeous little pink tongue that she starts to speak.</p><p> </p><p>“So. This.” She gestures between the two of them. “How long should I expect this to go on before you off me?”</p><p> </p><p>He sets down his own bowl, slowly. He can feel the power resume at his fingertips.</p><p> </p><p>“However long I feel like it,” he replies simply. “I told you, you’re mine now. I decide what happens for the rest of your life.”</p><p> </p><p>She lets out a small <em> hm </em>and her shoulders lower, as if an unseen tension released. </p><p> </p><p>“I see.”</p><p> </p><p>She pushes back from the island and stands, starting back toward the guest room like it belongs to her.</p><p> </p><p>He’s surprised she doesn’t have more to say, given her earlier displays. But then he hears her voice tossed back over her shoulder as she saunters away.</p><p> </p><p>“Plutt never seemed like the type to accept sex with one of his cronies as payment. I’m kind of surprised.”</p><p> </p><p>It’s so casually said that he almost doesn’t register his own confusion. </p><p> </p><p>Almost.</p><p> </p><p>“What’s a ‘Plutt’?”</p><p> </p><p>Rey turns back, and he watches her eyes widen. She seems to pass through several stages of emotion at once without a word: confusion, shock, and finally, what he’s been craving since he stuck a needle in her neck. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Fear. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>When she bolts for the front door, he expects it. She gave him too much time to prepare, and his arms are wrapped around her before she makes it halfway. He presses every inch of her against him, places a hand at the base of her neck to pull her head back to meet his eyes. </p><p> </p><p>“Going somewhere?”</p><p> </p><p>She gulps, a lovely movement through her throat. Maybe soon he’ll fuck it. </p><p> </p><p>She’s rendered silent, a first for her in his presence. He can feel himself hardening in his jeans, and he knows she can feel it too. </p><p> </p><p>“You have two choices here, Rey. I fuck you, and then you explain yourself. Or you explain yourself and then I fuck you. What’ll it be?”</p><p> </p><p>She gulps again, and the strain against his zipper gets nearly unbearable. He watches her eyes flicker to the front door, then to her be—to the guest bedroom, then back to him. </p><p> </p><p>Then she crashes her lips against his, and surprises him yet again.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I know I’m behind on comment responses, but they’re coming! Some of you just leave such thoughtful ones that I need time to formulate my words! As always, you can find me on <a href="https://twitter.com/beccastanz">Twitter</a> for a chat! Please share your thoughts there and/or in the comments! I appreciate you coming with me on this journey!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>She can’t bring herself to feel anything other than a slight morbid curiosity as to why she’s still alive.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Rey’s POV, as promised. I also finally asked the incomparable <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenOfCarrotFlowers/pseuds/QueenOfCarrotFlowers">QueenOfCarrotFlowers</a> to officially beta this fic because I really need to stop yeeting chapters up immediately and also she is amazing. THANK YOU, CARROTS! :D</p><p>Rereading the tags is never a bad idea, folks!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>She drifts back into unconsciousness easily, satiated by a full belly, an orgasm, and the vestiges of whatever her captor—Ben—used to knock her out.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her last thought before drifting off is the irony that she’s never felt so safe.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>At least she knows what to expect, and it’s not much different from what she’d been planning on, anyway. A different path, perhaps, but the same destination.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Release.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>————</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s always the same.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A stack of neatly sealed envelopes, covered in red ink.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Red.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Final notice.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Late payment.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Eviction.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They pile on her kitchen table, then the floor, burying her as her phone rings, endlessly, never a friendly voice on the other side, not since her friends left, not since her parents left her on the floor, tired and dizzy—</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Pay now, last warning, last chance—</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Tuition due, loan denied, overdrawn, enrollment cancelled—</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Envelopes are the walls of the shelter, boxing her in, the mattress small and dirty and the room is cold and she can’t escape—</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And she walks down the aisle of the grocery store but the food turns to envelopes in her hands, pills turn into bills, satiation denied yet again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And then it’s the garage, the office, a snuck moment next to the heater. Plutt’s eyes, his empty promises, </span>
  <em>
    <span>a loan,</span>
  </em>
  <span> he said, one she could never quite get ahead on, not when he took mistakes out of her wages, and didn’t pay overtime, and when she needed something, anything to eat, and his stare bores into her with menace and greed and ownership, and her phone rings, and red ink spills across the insides of her eyelids—</span>
  <em>
    <span>is it ink, or her own blood? Torn from her veins, her last means of payment</span>
  </em>
  <span>—until she shakes and pants and wishes for the end—</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her eyes open.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She is cuffed to the bed of a likely murderer.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And her heart rate slows.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ben? Ben, I have to pee.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She wasn’t sure if he’d actually come, but there he is, hulking form nearly taking up the entire doorway. He’s imposing, and fully dressed, and she’s naked and cuffed and has never been more vulnerable in her life. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She can’t bring herself to feel anything other than a slight morbid curiosity as to why she’s still alive. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She knows she’s managed to annoy him with her incessant chatter and blasé attitude toward his attempts at intimidation. He’s probably not used to a captive who expended her last shred of caring years ago. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He lets her out of the cuffs, and she avoids his eyes as she darts to the bathroom. There’s something in them that she’s glimpsed, fleetingly, something she doesn’t care to see again. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The light in the bathroom is nearly blinding—she rubs her own eyes, working out the last vestiges of whatever was in her bloodstream as she sits, contemplative. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Cum and her own wetness paint her inner thighs, a canvas depraved.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The only good thing the world gave her recently was an IUD.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Not that she’s going to be alive long enough for it to matter. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She observes herself in the mirror yet again, but this time the jig is up. She didn’t escape the cuffs herself. He wasn’t caught unaware. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She wonders how long she can keep him on his toes before he snaps, before the press of the knife against her throat bears enough pressure to give her the ending she craves. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her life is in his hands, now. It’s almost a relief. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And speaking of hands…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her hips bear finger marks, bruises in the shape of desperation. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>But whose is it?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’ll probably like to see them, and maybe if he likes what he sees he’ll be unable to resist the knife again, be too overcome to remember to lift it from her throat, and he will give her what she wants. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Nudity serves her, for now. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A warm, comforting scent makes its way past the door, and she exits in pursuit of it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What’s that smell?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’s not what she expected.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I made beef stew.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A murdering rapist...chef? She stumbles, but she knows what she wants. She angles her hips forward in what she hopes is a subtle coax. She assumes he wouldn’t take too kindly to outward manipulation. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I—could I have some?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her voice sounds foreign to her own ears, tinged with something she’s managed to manufacture. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Hope.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You may.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>————</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This is her final payment come to fruition. At least now she knows what her life is worth; the thrill of a few fucks and a hopefully quick death.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She wasn’t sure she’d get to feel the touch of another again before she went, wasn’t even sure if she wanted it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But Ben.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There was something about him, a carefully controlled urgency, a strength and intimidation belied by the warm bowl of sustenance in front of her. She's sure he’s killed, knows a darkness consumes him that should frighten her, but it’s just so </span>
  <em>
    <span>hard </span>
  </em>
  <span>to come up with anything other than apathy at her new circumstance. At least he’s interesting.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She’s tired and the stew is warm.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The only thing she lands on that bears further consideration is why, exactly, Plutt is letting her off the hook like this. She’s never seen Ben around the garage, but he must be a part of one of Plutt’s side endeavors, one of the ones that allowed him to so graciously offer her a loan once all of her credit cards were maxed out. She always kept her head down when vehicles came in, stripped of license plates, with orders to break them down for parts. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Perhaps her debtor realized he’d never make his investment back and threw her to the wolves.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And what a wolf he is.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She squeezes her thighs together as she recalls breakfast.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She shouldn’t. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But her thighs don’t quite get the memo that they shouldn’t be squeezing at the memory of a murderous rapist inside of her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s just been so long since someone touched her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She shudders out of her reverie, and shovels down the stew. She’s never eaten so well, and she doubts it’ll last.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Might as well die with a full stomach if she can. A small luxury.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Speaking of which…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So. This.” She waves a hand between them, an attempt at nonchalance. “How long should I expect this to go on before you off me?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She watches him set down his bowl, all strength, muscles rippling beneath too-tight long sleeves.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“However long I feel like it. I told you, you’re mine now. I decide what happens for the rest of your life.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The rest of your life.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Never making a decision again sounds heavenly.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I see,” she says, unsure what else one </span>
  <em>
    <span>could</span>
  </em>
  <span> say to such a declaration. Perhaps, if she felt any sense of self-preservation, she would fight back. Or at least prod him, demand more information.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But she was planning to die soon anyway. At least now she doesn’t have to do it herself.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>With nothing left to say, she starts back toward captivity.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She shouldn’t ask. She </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows </span>
  </em>
  <span>Plutt is dangerous, has caught glimpses, heard things that kept her up with nightmares in addition to her usual, but what else is left for her to lose?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Curiosity gets the better of her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Plutt never seemed like the type to accept sex with one of his cronies as payment. I’m kind of surprised.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s casual. Even. She doesn’t even look over her shoulder as she treks back to bed.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And then he knocks her world on its axis, again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What’s a ‘Plutt’?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She turns back, eyes wide. She couldn’t hide the shock if she wanted to.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He says the name like he’s never heard it in his life, and he has absolutely no reason to lie to someone he’s so clearly planning to kill. She’s confused, shocked, and finally, she feels it in her veins, something she’s missed.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Fear.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She’s been numb for weeks, months, maybe even years, forgotten what anything feels like outside of the few minutes after she wakes up each day, passing from one nightmare into the next. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It fuels her. Emboldens her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He stands between her and the door, and she wants to know, wants an explanation, wants to understand.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A very small part of her, lain dormant for so long, wants to </span>
  <em>
    <span>feel.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So she runs toward him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It must look like she’s trying to escape.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He pulls her in like he owns her, and she realizes that he does. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She’s his.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When he pulls her neck back, the sting of pain grounds her, excites her, opens something inside of her she’s ignored her entire life.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Going somewhere?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She gulps, and watches him trace the movement with his eyes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Up close, she no longer avoids his eyes. She can see the depths of the cruelty reflected against want, desire, and...something else. Something that clouds his presence, a softness she wants to interrogate.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But not as much as she wants to die. Eventually. Soon, even.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She can’t speak, and she feels him hardening against her, and she just knows this man is insatiable. And she knows with certainty now that she is not the first.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And she won’t be the last either, will she?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You have two choices here, Rey. I fuck you, and then you explain yourself. Or you explain yourself and then I fuck you. What’ll it be?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She can endure anything, she knows. She survived parents that kept her passed out when she was inconvenient, and she survived getting kicked out of school, and she survived homelessness, and she survived getting drugged and raped by a man now holding her like a lover might, if a lover had a death grip. But she’s tired of surviving, and she’s too tired to explain herself.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She wonders why he does this, why he snatches girls from the street and rapes them and kills them, and why he chose her, and who was going to be after her, and she tries to care. She </span>
  <em>
    <span>really</span>
  </em>
  <span> tries.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But she’s tired and hungry, and he tends to both. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So she kisses him.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I wonder if Ben likes being kissed??? As always, I appreciate comments to the moon and back, and you can find me on <a href="https://twitter.com/beccastanz">Twitter</a>!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>His lips are plush and soft, and for a moment, she forgets. </p><p>She forgets that this man stole her, because now he is stealing her breath.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Several new tags have been added, folks! Please read! Thanks again to the amazing <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenOfCarrotFlowers/pseuds/QueenOfCarrotFlowers">QueenOfCarrotFlowers</a> for the beta!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>His lips are plush and soft, and for a moment, she forgets. </p><p> </p><p>She forgets that this man stole her, because now he is stealing her breath. </p><p> </p><p>His hands tighten impossibly harder around her neck and her hip, and the press of new bruises over the old has her gasping against his lips.</p><p> </p><p>That small noise seems to break him out of a trance, and he yanks her off of his mouth. The rest of their bodies are still flush.</p><p> </p><p>“What the <em> fuck </em>do you think you’re doing, little one?”</p><p> </p><p>She tries to lurch forward again, to crash back against him, to see if it feels just as horrifyingly intimate as the first time. </p><p> </p><p>He senses her game, and keeps her rooted just inches from his flushed cheeks. </p><p> </p><p>“You gave me a choice. I made it.”</p><p> </p><p>His breath is heavy against her face, and she’s precariously balanced on her toes as he studies her, silently, like a problem he can’t quite solve. It goes on for ages, or maybe seconds, or maybe it’s no time at all.</p><p> </p><p>“Do you not usually kiss them, then?”</p><p> </p><p>He startles, as if their brief moment of silence made him forget she was there, baiting him, changing him, drawing out his arousal against the apex of her thighs like it was always meant to be there.</p><p> </p><p>Then, almost imperceptibly, he moves his head. </p><p> </p><p>A fraction of an inch to either side. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> No. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Well. Don’t you know how to make a girl feel special.”</p><p> </p><p>And then she can no longer see his eyes because his lips are crushed against hers, and she doesn’t have to explain herself. </p><p> </p><p>At least, not yet.</p><p> </p><p>He kisses like her mouth is something naughty that needs to be tamed, subdued, <em> punished. </em></p><p> </p><p>And she lets him.</p><p> </p><p>It’s easy to let him. She loses herself, and loss is a comfort. She doesn’t want to be found ever again.</p><p> </p><p>He wraps an arm around her waist and drags her to the bed, her toes scrabbling against the hardwood, all the while pillaging her mouth like a deranged conqueror. </p><p> </p><p>She amends his actions in her mind—he is not kissing her. </p><p> </p><p>No. </p><p> </p><p>He’s ruining her, claiming her with harsh bites eons past the playful nips deemed acceptable in polite society. </p><p> </p><p>He’s all teeth and tongue and she is just a set of holes for him to plunder. He pulls and tugs and gnaws at the seam of her mouth, keeping her open and swollen and dripping. She’s never been so thoroughly taken advantage of, and another hole opens and swells and drips as he throws her onto the bed.</p><p> </p><p>She gets a single glance into darkness before he’s back on top of her, mouth latching onto her breast as he simultaneously locks her back against the headboard. </p><p> </p><p>And she lets him.</p><p> </p><p>She’s almost angry at herself for the lack of fight in her bones, but he’s sucking such a deep mark into the swell of her chest and all she has to do is take it.</p><p> </p><p>It hurts, but hurt is simply something new to break up the monotony of nothingness. Hurt could be joy or regret or sadness or euphoria and she thinks it might all be the same goddamn thing for how little she remembers of any of it.</p><p> </p><p>She must make a noise, because then his hand is at her throat, and he releases her already purpling breast with a wet <em> pop. </em></p><p> </p><p>“Did you say something, little one?”</p><p> </p><p>She tries to shake her head like he did earlier, back when she was still brazen, when she questioned where his mouth has been, if the others had felt their lips pulled away from their teeth with a ravenous hunger she can only liken to the empty stomach she’s had for years.</p><p> </p><p>But his grip is too tight for her to move.</p><p> </p><p>All she can do is stare, and wheeze. </p><p> </p><p>“I didn’t think so.”</p><p> </p><p>And this is the darkness she’s seen, compassion swallowed by greed as he moves to her other breast, fingers curled around her throat. He owns every gasp and choked-off moan, collects it beneath his palm before it can escape.</p><p> </p><p>She is nearly outside of herself, body succumbed to the whims of a man she thought she might know. It’s clear now that they never knew each other at all.</p><p> </p><p>And then his hand trails to her cunt, and she finds she never really knew <em> herself, </em> either. </p><p> </p><p>They both falter at what he finds: a veritable fountain of wetness, labia glistening, patch of hair damp.</p><p> </p><p>His hand goes slack, and she remembers breathing. She’d started to forget.</p><p> </p><p>When her vision returns (and how funny she hadn’t noticed when it’d gone black), she looks back down at him, slack jawed above her spit-slick chest. Curiosity and confusion tinge carnality before he can hide it.</p><p> </p><p>He seems to conclude that it can’t go unsaid.</p><p> </p><p>“Do you like this?”</p><p> </p><p>“Evidence points to yes, I suppose,” she croaks. His hand is no match for sarcasm, even as her words coax him back to squeeze again.</p><p> </p><p>If he chokes her hard enough, maybe she’ll never have to explain herself. </p><p> </p><p>“You’re…” and he trails off, like the sentence never truly had an ending. She thinks she would’ve liked to hear it.</p><p> </p><p>He shoves two fingers in with no trouble at all, and nothing could contain her moan at that.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re a whore.”</p><p> </p><p>He says it almost clinically.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re a monster,” she rasps back.</p><p> </p><p>And then his hand is no longer at her throat because how could it be, if his palm is striking her cheek?</p><p> </p><p>They both feel what happens next; her cunt clenches around his fingers, and a fresh gush of wetness seeps onto the sheets.</p><p> </p><p>And he leans in to whisper, so intimate, “Yes I am.”</p><p> </p><p>He slaps her again, and the sting gives clarity in a way nothing else ever has.</p><p> </p><p>He’s using her, and it’s so delightfully freeing she nearly cries. </p><p> </p><p>There are no decisions to be made, no pennies to count, no urges to look over her shoulder in fear. Fear is in the room with her, definite and permanent and clear, and she never has to think again. She only has to take.</p><p> </p><p>So she shoves her hips against his hand.</p><p> </p><p>She watches the instantaneous shift in his eyes. Disbelief. Anger. Arousal.</p><p> </p><p>He chokes her again, and then she’s empty, because he’s backhanding her while keeping her neck anchored, leaving a trail of her own wetness.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re <em> my </em>whore.”</p><p> </p><p>She can’t confirm with words, so she licks her reddened, stinging cheek and tastes her own apathy.</p><p> </p><p>She must have missed when he freed his cock, because it pushes inside of her before she can retract her tongue. She thought she was already breathless, but this is something else, a new plane of existence where cock is enough to sustain. </p><p> </p><p>He frees her neck in honor of pressing into the bruises already on her hips, and oxygen rushes her brain, and her gasp is twofold as he starts to thrust. There’s no buildup, no coaxing, just a punishing pace that makes her wrists pull and arms strain.</p><p> </p><p>She locks eyes with him for a moment, and she’s never seen something so deranged.</p><p> </p><p>He slaps her again.</p><p> </p><p>She clenches. She slicks his cock. She looks at him again.</p><p> </p><p>Another slap.</p><p> </p><p>And she thinks she understands.</p><p> </p><p>Perhaps they will know each other after all. </p><p> </p><p>He brings the hand to a bruised breast, grip tight against it and her hip as he continues his brutal rhythm. He makes no move to try and get her off, and she doesn’t expect to, but then he shifts a bit and he hits her clit with every thrust and she feels it building rapidly and she’s not sure how to feel about the murderous stranger who grabbed her off the street pushing her toward ecstasy—</p><p> </p><p>And then she remembers: she doesn’t have to feel. She just has to take.</p><p> </p><p>Her body is flame personified, heat emanating from every inch of flesh he’s worried under his hands and mouth. Her cunt is the hottest, dangerous, clenching, and then he leans down to bite at her empty breast and she screams her release for the world to hear, unintelligible decibels translating to <em> his his I am his this feeling is not mine. </em></p><p> </p><p>Perhaps he did not know such a thing belonged to him, as in the midst of her revelation she feels him spill more fire inside of her, and he cuts off her cries with his hand back at her throat like it belongs there. He squeezes and spills and pours moans of his own against her chest, and she wonders if those are hers now, if she might be able to afford to own one small thing.<br/><br/></p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thoughts appreciated as always in the comments and/or on <a href="https://twitter.com/beccastanz">Twitter</a>.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>He wants to control her, and control usually means death.</p><p>But how could he live without something so deeply magnificent?</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>We’re back! Sorry for the wait, but a couple other fics dragged me away! Feel free to check out my other works should you feel so inclined :)</p><p>As I’ve been planning the story, I’ve added a few tags for things that will come eventually, so feel free to take a gander! </p><p>Thanks to the lovely <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenOfCarrotFlowers/pseuds/QueenOfCarrotFlowers">QueenOfCarrotFlowers</a> for the beta!</p><p>Also thanks to <a href="https://twitter.com/alantieislander?s=21">Allison</a> for the absolutely gorgeous edit for this fic. I’m in awe ❤️</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p>He orgasms as if she pulled it from him by force with her own release.</p><p> </p><p>Control is what he prides himself on, cool and collected and always prepared. But he could never have prepared for this.</p><p> </p><p>She takes him like she was made for it, like somehow, in the twisted mess of cruel fate that is his life, someone could match him.</p><p> </p><p>He pants into her chest, and he can’t get up, because he is terrified of what he will see when he does. What he will have to confront.</p><p> </p><p>He wants to control her, and control usually means death.</p><p> </p><p>But how could he live without something so deeply magnificent?</p><p> </p><p>And every breath brings a new startling thought.</p><p> </p><p>What is control, really?</p><p> </p><p>He feels his own slipping away from himself, feels the instinct to care and save bubbling back up from where he’s hidden it for so long, convinced it was the wrong ache, indoctrinated to the belief that death was the kindest stroke he could give them once he finished.</p><p> </p><p>But Rey.</p><p> </p><p>Does he want to be kind or cruel?</p><p> </p><p>And which does she prefer, subdued under the pressure of his hand at her throat?</p><p> </p><p>Could cruelty be a kindness? She poured wetness for him at every stroke, coated him in her desire, clenched around his cock in ecstasy despite her fear, despite blooming bruises littering her skin.</p><p> </p><p>Every touch had her gasping, her body begging when her mouth no longer could.</p><p> </p><p>And it’s too much, it’s all too much, everything is too much as he withdraws with a sweetly slick sound so ruinous he wants to slap her again.</p><p> </p><p>He wonders if she’d still like it.</p><p> </p><p>He hears the hitch in her breath when he exits, a raspy little choked off moan that has his dick making a valiant effort to bend the laws of physics.</p><p> </p><p>But the confusion he desperately tries to keep from his face staves off any lingering arousal.</p><p> </p><p>“Ben.”</p><p> </p><p>He looks at her before he remembers he doesn’t want to.</p><p> </p><p>Arms bound, cheeks red, throat a hedonistic mix of purple and yellow, breasts shining and bitten. She’s gorgeous. Exquisite. Maddening.</p><p> </p><p>Intoxicating.</p><p> </p><p>Ben is not used to being under the influence. A sharp mind has been his greatest asset, and she dulls the edges with her resilience.</p><p> </p><p>“Ben?” </p><p> </p><p>She rasps out his name, and it sounds even better that way.</p><p> </p><p>“Will you kill me, now?”</p><p> </p><p>The look in her eyes is pleading, but for what, he can’t be sure anymore. Her words are clear, but her motivations appear as messy as her cunt, painted with their shared release.</p><p> </p><p>He is unsure what release she is after next.</p><p> </p><p>But he manages to collect himself, just enough, and he remembers what led to such torrid wantonness.</p><p> </p><p>“No, little one. You still have to explain.”</p><p> </p><p>He watches her gulp, and this one comes with a wince that shoots a dangerous cocktail of pride and <em> hunger </em>through his blood. He did that. </p><p> </p><p>And she let him.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> God, she took him so beautif— </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> No. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“I—” and she falters for the first time in his presence, rarely at a loss for words except for when he stole the air from her lungs with his grip.</p><p> </p><p>His hands feel cold without the warmth of her skin.</p><p> </p><p>He watches her steel herself, and it’s such a sight to see, the way that even with her hands above her head, she squares her shoulders, takes a breath, and looks into his eyes like he hadn’t been moments from choking her to an early grave as he fucked her.</p><p> </p><p>“If you’re not going to kill me, I think I need a shower.”</p><p> </p><p>He immediately recognizes it for what it is: a stalling tactic. Perhaps she thinks she’s being clever, with three loads of cum stuffed in her cunt and a rainbow of bruises and her knotted locks that he finds himself wanting to pull <em> next time there will surely be a next time no you’re not allowed a next time get a fucking grip you absolute monster— </em></p><p> </p><p>Perhaps she thinks she’s being clever. And perhaps he will let her think that.</p><p> </p><p>And if it gives him time to ruminate on his own cacophony of conflict, so be it.</p><p> </p><p>“Of course.”</p><p> </p><p>————</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Of course? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>She certainly hadn’t expected such a diplomatic response. Her body is painted with pain, and she’s certain she lost a few moments under the pressure of his hand at her neck. He is looming, sharp, conniving, but still he says <em> of course. </em> It’s enough to keep her nearly frozen to the bed, stare boring into him until he decides to do something, <em> anything, </em>about it.</p><p> </p><p>But she needs time, time to contemplate and reason and scrub day old cum from her thighs as it mixes with her fresh wetness and constantly reminds her of fucking.</p><p> </p><p>He struck her again and again, and she came on his cock, and she’s lost adjectives for feelings and all she can come up with is <em> yes </em> when every logical synapse should be screaming <em> no.  </em></p><p> </p><p>Maybe she should be <em> saying </em>“no” too, but she’s not.</p><p> </p><p>It seems wholly unnecessary to determine why that might be.</p><p> </p><p>No, she doesn’t need time to contemplate and reason. No.</p><p> </p><p>She just needs a shower.</p><p> </p><p>When his hands reach to unclasp the cuffs, his fingers brush her wrist, and she didn’t realize she was still sensitive until a pleasure-pained moan accompanies a twitch of her hips. </p><p> </p><p>It seems her body craves his particular brand of dangerous.</p><p> </p><p>He lets out a small <em> hmm </em> in response to her involuntary encouragement. Considering. Curious?</p><p> </p><p>She wonders if a man like this can ever be sated.</p><p> </p><p>But he lets her exit the bed.</p><p> </p><p>He lets her.</p><p> </p><p>His will controls her every move now. She is only allowed this moment to herself because he has chosen to give it to her. It feels almost like a gift, though he doesn’t seem the type. His gifts are the bruises on her neck and chest and hips, lingering and thoughtful in his own way.</p><p> </p><p>Hot water soothes the ache, and she doesn’t want to think about the fact that the soothing doesn’t feel as good as the infliction.</p><p> </p><p>It’s the first hot, pressured, unhurried shower she can remember having in years.</p><p> </p><p>She’s not naive; it could be over at any moment. He could decide that he is in fact not sated, charge into the bathroom, push her into the tiles and force her to yield to him again.</p><p> </p><p>He could just as easily shove his knife through the curtain. </p><p> </p><p>A train of thought comparing her desire for the possibilities her mind has conjured up is stopped in its tracks.</p><p> </p><p>So she enjoys it while it lasts. </p><p> </p><p>And it lasts. And lasts. </p><p> </p><p>Just as the pain of her former life seeks permanence in her soul, soon forced to be bared. </p><p> </p><p>So she lets the heat encase her for as long as she dares.</p><p> </p><p>————</p><p> </p><p>He wants to know her. </p><p> </p><p>He’s never wanted to know them before. </p><p> </p><p>But no—he <em> needs </em> to know her. His desires are irrelevant. She is with him now, and he must know what tsunami he has welcomed into his heart—home. <em> Home. </em> Welcomed into his home.</p><p> </p><p>She is danger and apathy and sin and he can’t afford a distraction. </p><p> </p><p>He also can’t afford to consider what might happen if she is gone. </p><p> </p><p>He has never doubted his abilities in life. </p><p> </p><p>And he comes to a startling conclusion.</p><p> </p><p>He can’t fuck her. He can’t kill her. </p><p> </p><p>He can’t do a damn thing until he figures out what the fuck he’s gotten himself into. </p><p> </p><p>So he will pull it from her, no matter the pain, no matter the anguish, no matter the shield of sarcasm he’s come to expect. He will crack her open deeper than his cock could ever go, and only then will he know his next move. </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Shortish chapter today, but things will be picking up a bit and this felt like a natural stopping point. I’m always interested in your thoughts, so feel free to leave them in the comments and/or on <a href="https://twitter.com/beccastanz">Twitter</a>!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>And then he perches himself on the edge of her—of the bed, and he waits.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello, all! Thanks for being here! This chapter has been tough to write given both the heavy themes and the fact that I was finishing graduate school. As of two days ago, I did it!</p><p>This is a short update, as there’s a lot of very sad and fraught ground to cover and I think it’s best to split it up into smaller pieces.</p><p>Thank you to beta extraordinaire <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenOfCarrotFlowers/pseuds/QueenOfCarrotFlowers">QueenOfCarrotFlowers</a>!</p><p>Mind those tags &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He lets the shower run, and if it gives him more time to prepare, then so be it. </p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t get her any clothes, because he is sticking to his <em> fucking </em> resolve.</p><p> </p><p>And he gets himself a glass of water, and while he’s there, it would be foolish not to get her one as well. Death by dehydration would be a bore.</p><p> </p><p>And then he perches himself on the edge of her—of the bed, and he waits.</p><p> </p><p>And worries.</p><p> </p><p>And questions how on Earth he got here.</p><p> </p><p>And wonders what the <em> fuck </em> he’s supposed to do now.</p><p> </p><p>And realizes he cannot afford to show even an ounce of his turmoil, lest she get the idea that he is anything less than completely controlled.</p><p> </p><p>And then she emerges, skin pink except for where it is purple and yellow.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> He did that. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> It suits her. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>She reaches for the full glass of water, downing half of it in a few short gulps. He can’t help the quirk of his eyebrow at that, at how trusting—</p><p> </p><p>“You don’t seem like the poisoning type. And if you are, well,” and she raises the glass in a mock toast before downing the rest of it, “cheers.”</p><p> </p><p>A single drop makes a path down her throat, past the ring of bruises around her neck, dripping down the bite marks on her breast before falling off the edge of her peaked nipple, chill of the night air raising the flesh. He watches the descent with rapt attention, and time slows, that drop marking his path, a path he desperately wants to traverse again and again.</p><p> </p><p>But he can’t.</p><p> </p><p>“Why did you run away from me, Rey?”</p><p> </p><p>It’s almost a ridiculous question; the answer should be obvious—<em>you’re a murderer, you fucked me while I was passed out, and then you fucked me again with a knife to my throat</em>—, but he knows, somehow, that’s not it at all.</p><p> </p><p>She moves to the bed and sits atop the sheets, making no move to cover herself with anything but her own body, knees curled to her chest, arms wrapped around them. She rests her chin atop her bent knees and finally acknowledges his probe.</p><p> </p><p>“Is that what I did? Hmm.” Her tone is pensive. Thoughtful. A tinge sarcastic. It’s altogether strange and unnerving. </p><p> </p><p>“You’ll never get away from me, little one.”</p><p> </p><p>“Better the devil you know.”</p><p> </p><p>The implication is startling.</p><p> </p><p>Away...or toward?</p><p> </p><p>He can’t ask. To confirm it in words would be too debilitating for them both, he thinks. At least, he’d like to think that acknowledging the notion that she was not trying to escape would break them both, not just him.</p><p> </p><p>So he pivots.</p><p> </p><p>“Is that what I am to you, then? The devil?”</p><p> </p><p>She shrugs her shoulders, still wrapped in a ball of nervous protection—not that the stance would do her any good if he truly wanted to unravel her. </p><p> </p><p>Well, he wants to.</p><p> </p><p>But he can’t now.</p><p> </p><p>“Certainly no angel. Well, angel of death, perhaps,” she says with a wink and a dry, throaty chuckle.</p><p> </p><p>A fucking wink. The absolute nerve of her, to get under his skin like this, to gamble with her life when the house always wins.</p><p> </p><p>She is a strange mix of deception and vulnerability and it makes him want to choke the truth out of her and then soothe the pain it leaves behind. </p><p> </p><p>It allows him to consider the dangerous notion that maybe he could do just that. </p><p> </p><p>Except he can’t. Shouldn’t. Won’t.</p><p> </p><p>If he angles his head just so, he can see the puffy, reddened lips of her cunt peeking out between her legs. She’s clean, yes, but the flesh is still swollen and abused, and yet another thought he can’t prevent from pushing through his mental boundaries becomes an assault to his senses.</p><p> </p><p>He wants to <em> lick </em> her there, feel the flesh part beneath his tongue. Taste her. Own her completely. <em> Ruin </em>her.</p><p> </p><p>The act is on his list right next to kissing. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Things you mustn’t do. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>In a single weekend. <em> Unraveled.  </em></p><p> </p><p>The silence has gone on for too long, he realizes belatedly, as she quirks an eyebrow in his direction.</p><p> </p><p>Urging.</p><p> </p><p>And he finally remembers.</p><p> </p><p>“So. ‘Plutt.’”</p><p> </p><p>Now, she reaches for the sheets and he laments the loss of her miles of rainbowed skin.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s nothing,” she lies. He knows it’s a lie, the way it sounds like nothing she’s said to him so far. Everything else has been the truth, unequivocally honest, but not this.</p><p> </p><p>“Tell me,” he growls. The anger behind it surprises them both, and he can’t find the source of his own.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s none of your business,” she whispers, both huffy and caged. Trepidatious. </p><p> </p><p>“You made it my business, little one. You <em> are </em>my business.”</p><p> </p><p>Perhaps that’s a bit too close to the truth for him to be readily admitting, but it’s effective enough, and he tries not to worry that he’s played his hand.</p><p> </p><p>“He’s my boss. <em> Was </em> my boss,” she corrects.</p><p> </p><p>Right. Because he’s going to kill her.</p><p> </p><p>“And you thought I was one of his <em> cronies?</em>” He grimaces at the taste of her word on his tongue, unpretentious jargon unfamiliar.</p><p> </p><p>She nods, unseeing. </p><p> </p><p>There’s a stretch of silence as the gears of his mind turn. He places his head in his hands, focus eluding him as he scents the room, the strangest mix of fresh and deranged. </p><p> </p><p>His conclusion feels ever so slightly shattering.</p><p> </p><p>“You thought your boss...sold you?”</p><p> </p><p>When he raises his head, he sees only the broad expanse of her naked back. She’s tucked her bottom half under the sheet and her head faces the opposite side of the room.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes.”</p><p> </p><p>He reaches for her shoulder, barely stopping himself in time.</p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t think she saw his nearly fatal error.</p><p> </p><p>“Why?”</p><p> </p><p>She adjusts, tucking her arms beneath the pillow, perhaps attempting to avoid the cuffs again.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Maybe she deserves a break— </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“I owe him money.”</p><p> </p><p>Her legs curl, almost touching where his ass meets the bed. Almost.</p><p> </p><p>“And why exactly do you owe your employer money?”</p><p> </p><p>Her voice sounds distant. A bit thick.</p><p> </p><p>“Because I owe a lot of other people money, too.”</p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t have a response for that, but it turns out he doesn’t need one, because she continues.</p><p> </p><p>“How long does it take for someone to be presumed dead?”</p><p> </p><p>He sucks in a breath at that.</p><p> </p><p>How could one ever be prepared for something like this?</p><p> </p><p>“Rey, you need to tell me—”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t need to tell you <em> shit, </em>Ben.” His name sounds like venom and he fucking hates it.</p><p> </p><p>So he takes a risk.</p><p> </p><p>“I want to know, Rey.” <em> I want to know you. </em></p><p> </p><p>“Yeah? Well, I’m done for the night. Fuck me or kill me or leave me alone.”</p><p> </p><p>The first two are impossibilities. The third feels like loss.</p><p> </p><p>He’s losing himself as he gets up from the bed.</p><p> </p><p>He’s losing himself as he neglects the cuffs.</p><p> </p><p>He’s losing himself and he’s losing her and he doesn’t know what’s worse.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Find me on <a href="https://twitter.com/beccastanz">Twitter</a>.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>He doesn’t fuck her and he doesn’t kill her and she doesn’t know which is more disappointing.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Welcome back! A few tags have been added, so now is a great time for a reread! </p><p>Check out <a href="https://twitter.com/plasmamullet/status/1335913648036990977?s=21">this super awesome edit</a> by the lovely Plasmamullet. Thank you for the gift, dear!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>He doesn’t fuck her and he doesn’t kill her and she doesn’t know which is more disappointing.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She relishes the feeling of unrestrained wrists as she allows herself to drift off. Maybe she should keep her guard up, but at this point it’s useless, a waste of energy. He can take whatever he wants—except for her words.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She doesn’t dream.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>————</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His fingers itch for the comfort of his laptop.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He could find out everything he wants to know with just a few short clicks.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Well, almost everything. His computer can’t tell him why she doesn’t care to live, why she soaked his cock when he struck her, how she burrowed so deeply under his skin without trying.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His job depends on information, but he wants it from her, spilled freely from her lips before her veins spill across his sheets.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He can’t fuck her and he can’t kill her, and yet he knows with certainty that he must do both.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Eventually, if he waits too long, Snoke will find out, and her time will be up.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He finds a small comfort in that, in outsourcing the decision of her demise. It won’t be his fault when he ultimately slices through the flesh he once bruised so beautifully.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So he resists the urge to type “Plutt” into the database, reaching for his other vice: his knife.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The rhythmic motion is almost soothing as he polishes and sharpens the blade.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Almost.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He considers how to make her talk and remembers the light in her eyes at the mere sight of food, her ravenous attack on sustenance.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Perhaps it’s a cheap trick.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Perhaps it will work.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Perhaps he’s desperate enough to try.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He will feed her and she will open up to him, open her mouth and trade words for his cock—</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>No.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>No.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He will resist until she is as unraveled as him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His dreams are red.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>————</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She doesn’t surprise him in the kitchen that morning.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Breakfast in bed is nearly too domestic, but he brings it to her anyway. It looks as though she’s barely moved in the hours since he left, sheet still wrapped around her torso, rosy, bitten nipples peeking out.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Rey.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She doesn’t stir. He places the bowl on the nightstand, delicately so as to not rouse her. He walks to the other side to observe her face.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Most of her muscles are lax, even after nearly twelve hours in bed. The lines on her face, however—her jaw is tight in sleep, wrinkles between her eyes, lips turned down in a frown.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The realization is overwhelming: she’s so <em>tired.</em></span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But he cannot resist the urge to dredge up her past, even as he remains her only present and future.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>————</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She awakens to an empty room and a bowl of long-cold oatmeal.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fresh berries burst between her teeth as she feeds herself, ravenous, distrustful of his intent but in no place to refuse. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Starvation will not be what kills her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>————</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’s at his desk but his mind is elsewhere, flitting over every possibility; what was she into, before him? How had he missed it?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Possibility turns to eventuality, her life in his hands, a life he must snuff out when all he can seem to do is consider its prolonging.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>————</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She dozes on and off, her mind her only company until he returns, this time with a sandwich.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>————</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Rey.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ben.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She sits against the headboard, chest bare, sheet over her hips.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I brought you lunch.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Why?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s the only question that makes sense.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m not ev—”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He stops himself, because he is.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She takes the sandwich anyway, downing a quarter of it in a single bite.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Why?” she asks again, muffled by bread.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Tell me about Plutt.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her chewing slows, contemplative. A shine lights her eyes, like she’s planning to test him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She does.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He wrenches the sandwich from her grasp, and immediately knows he’s made a grave error.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She leaps from the bed, fist in his gut before he can blink. The power of it forces him to drop the sandwich, and she catches it midair before shoving the entire thing in her mouth.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’s wheezing as she chews, but he has enough sense to wrestle her down into the bed, wrists cuffed back to the headboard. She’s naked and writhing and he’s half hard but she can’t know that, so he makes quick work of the restraints, stepping back the moment the locks click.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her eyes and puffed cheeks scream defiance.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Fuck you,” she garbles.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her throat is bruised and her breasts are bitten and her cunt is undoubtedly sore, but this, </span>
  <em>
    <span>this </span>
  </em>
  <span>is what fueled her to lay hands on him, to fight back against cruelty.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’s properly admonished, guilty, loathsome. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Proud.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She’s bared to him again, no sheet to protect against his wandering gaze. Her chest rises and falls with exertion, energy depleted by their short exchange.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It occurs to him then, the chronic nature of her exhaustion, perpetual, unending. And now he’s exacerbated her wound, threatened her trust. He’s ashamed.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I—”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Fuck. You.” She repeats it clearly this time, nothing holding the words back from spilling out of her gorgeous mouth, the mouth he felt against his own, so confident, so unabashed, so dangerous.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Even in her rage, her eyelids droop, exhaustion chasing adrenaline. He backs away slowly, eyes trained on her face for long moments of retreat.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” he forces out. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You should be,” she whispers, before sleep takes her again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>————</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Maybe he should be worried at how quickly he orgasms, barely a few feet from her bedroom door, one hand in his mouth, the other around his cock as he replays the feeling of her fist against his gut.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>————</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I upset you,” he says two days later as he spoon feeds her leftover beef stew. Two days of handcuffs and silence and consistent meals, eaten from his hands slightly less begrudgingly each time.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She hums around the bite before nodding. “You did.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t—” </span>
  <em>
    <span>mean to? want to? think before he did it?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t finish the thought, and it’s just as well since she has more to say.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s been a while since I even had the energy to be upset.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He feeds her another bite before taking one himself, a single spoon between them. Simpler, he reasoned.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He waits patiently, hoping she’ll continue.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“When you’re constantly hungry, you can’t waste time and energy on being upset. You understand?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He nods, because now he understands. He understands that a hand at her throat is nothing compared to the feeling of emptiness after he gave her a taste of being full. He wants to fill her, mouth and stomach and cunt.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But her cunt has been empty for days.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She’s been sleeping less, and he can only imagine the boredom she goes through when he leaves her cuffed for hours on end as he sits in his office.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But she hasn’t complained.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>In fact, as she takes her last bite and he moves to stand from his position on the bed, she chuckles to herself. It’s soft at first, nearly silent, but it’s enough to give him pause, to force him to set the bowl on the nightstand and look at her, </span>
  <em>
    <span>really </span>
  </em>
  <span>look at her as she appears to unravel.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Rey?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She keeps laughing, louder and more boisterous until a tear escapes each of her eyes, paths of wetness down her nearly healed neck.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh my god, it just hit me. You kidnapped me—”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And he can’t help his mouth.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Since you’re an adult, it’s technically an abduction.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She gives him a look that he knows means </span>
  <em>
    <span>shut up.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You <em>abducted</em> me, raped me—”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t like that word.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s out before he can think to stop it, and she catches her breath before responding.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Too fucking bad, it’s what you did. So anyway, you abducted me, raped me, and somehow my life has never been better.” She laughs again, incredulous. “Pretty fucked, huh?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He has to agree. It’s pretty fucked. <br/>
<br/>
</span>
</p><p>
  <span><br/>
She keeps laughing, and the confusion must show on his face. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Don’t you get it? I’m finally </span>
  <em>
    <span>free!”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A strange turn of phrase for someone currently handcuffed to a bed. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Rey.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She spares him a glance. Fleeting.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Free from what?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s sobering, the effect of his words.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A breakthrough.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’ll tell you tomorrow.”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>As always, I’m on <a href="https://twitter.com/beccastanz">Twitter</a>.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Chapter 10</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>It hits her in that moment, spoon fed by her captor: no one has ever cared about her this much.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Reminder to please reread the tags. This chapter is quite heavy. </p><p>We’ve got a bit of overlap from the last chapter, this time from Rey’s POV. Then, it’s time to talk.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>When she punches him in the gut, it’s almost a relief. Surely, he will kill her now, wring his hands around her throat and take her breath away. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Annoyingly, it just earns her a spot back at the headboard.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When he whispers an apology, she’s sure he drugged her. Why else would those words—</span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m sorry—</span>
  </em>
  <span>be coming out of his mouth? Has this man ever been sorry for a single thing in his life?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She’s silent for two days after that, her own brand of punishment, and yet it feels like self-flagellation. She’d started to get used to having someone to talk to.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And then, finally, he breaks over beef stew. It’s a hollow victory.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I upset you,” he says, as if the past several days hadn’t possibly been upsetting until the moment he threatened her with hunger. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You did,” she responds simply, throat unaccustomed to speech after days of disuse.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t—”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She’s suspended in the air of his thoughts, desperately wanting to know the end.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But he makes no move to continue, so she does.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s been a while since I even had the energy to be upset.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sharing with him is nonsensical. She knows that, and yet here she is, offering herself to the man who already has her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He feeds her another bite before taking one himself. More sharing.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“When you’re constantly hungry, you can’t waste time and energy on being upset. You understand?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He nods before offering her the final bite. Her lips touch where his have been. It hits her in that moment, spoon fed by her captor: no one has ever cared about her this much.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A soft chuckle worms its way into her throat, almost silent. But then it pushes past her lips, sharp and strange in the heavy air of the bedroom. Once it starts, she can’t stop, loud guffaws mixed with wet tears as her entire body shakes with the release, a broken dam. She faintly registers his eyes on her, her name on his lips, but nothing can stop her now. Her stomach hurts with clarity, and the words tumble freely.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh my god, it just hit me. You kidnapped me—”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Since you’re an adult, it’s technically an abduction.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She gifts him her most withering stare as her imitation of joy claws its way out of her throat.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You abducted me, raped me—”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t like that word.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He almost sounds pathetic. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Almost.</span>
  </em>
  <span> She has to catch her breath before her tirade continues.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Too fucking bad, it’s what you did. So anyway,” she sighs with a roll of her shoulders, preparing to drop the fucked up bomb that is her world now, “you abducted me, raped me, and somehow my life has never been better.” Another laugh, involuntary and painful. “Pretty fucked, huh?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She can hardly register his face as the laughter continues. It barely sounds like her to her own ears; she can’t remember the last time she laughed, and the final puzzle piece of clarity begs to be spoken aloud.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Don’t you get it? I’m finally free!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Rey.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He says her name like someone who gives a shit, and she can’t look at him for more than a second.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Free from what?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The question is sobering, wall-shattering. If she’s going to die, someone might as well know why she wants it so badly.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But her body aches, unused to days in cuffs and a laughing fit and regular meals. Everything feels heavy and cloying, and she needs time. So she tries her luck.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’ll tell you tomorrow.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He nods. She breathes. Weirdly, amazingly, blessedly, he removes the cuffs. She stares at him, completely unsure what is painted over her face, as she cannot name what she’s feeling herself. He leaves.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She has the best night's sleep she can ever remember.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>————</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Where do you go all day?” She can’t help asking over her bowl of oatmeal, her </span>
  <em>
    <span>own </span>
  </em>
  <span>bowl this morning. His hand keeps twitching toward her, like he got used to feeding her himself.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s a far more innocuous question than the others she wants to ask—</span>
  <em>
    <span>are you going to fuck me again why haven’t you killed me do you have any regrets have you ever known hunger—</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I work.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A glob of peanut butter sticks to the roof of her mouth, congealed oats and stilted inquiries.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I have an office here,” he offers, even though she didn’t ask. His words are clipped, short, whether from inexperience at conversing or the hanging promise of her confession, she can’t be sure. “But sometimes I have to go into the city.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>What will he do first: kill her or leave her?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He levels her with a stare, like he’s waiting for something.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Perhaps her promised story.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But the morning feels too heavy for such a last confession. She needs the night, the dark, a cloak of feigned comfort to divulge herself to him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Instead, she deflects, for what they both know is the last time.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well, don’t let me keep you. Or you could kill me now, if that’s easier.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His smile is grim.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’ll see you tonight, Rey.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He leaves her with a few snacks and today, for the first time, a book, as if this is simply a vacation on which she needs something to pass the hours.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She doesn’t read it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Instead, she paces the length of the room until she loses count of how many times she’s done it. She rifles through the bathroom cabinets and finds nothing of significance. She sits in the bathtub until scalding water turns to ice. She catalogues her bruises, all nearly faded, but still she presses into them with all her might, bringing a twinge of feeling to the surface. She gets wet. She ignores it. She squeezes the sides of her throat until her vision swims. She gets wet again. She ignores it, again. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And then she crawls back into bed and waits for dinner.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>————</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’ll need you in the office for the rest of the week, my boy. Urgent matters with one of our clients.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He hesitates nearly too long.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Of course, Sir.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Good. I’ll see you tomorrow then. Don’t be late.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>————</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dinner is chicken and rice and vegetables and trepidation. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She holds the sheet above her chest. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They clear their plates, the only noise the sound of plastic forks scraping ceramic.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So,” she starts. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She can’t look at him, but she can feel his gaze. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She’d rather choke on his cock than bare her soul, but he hasn’t touched her in days, and somehow she doesn’t think he’d take too kindly to further delay.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“My parents were addicts. I learned the way to school as soon as they could pawn me off. I’m pretty sure they used to drug me on nights and weekends so I’d sleep through whatever the fuck they were doing.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’s deadly silent.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sometimes they’d leave me alone for days. I survived on whatever I could find. And then one day,” she breathes, because she hasn’t in a while and her chest hurts and her eyes are already stinging, “they just didn’t come back. I was probably about twelve.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She doesn’t tell him that she actually knows exactly how old she was. She knows the exact moment she saw them for the last time, the day, the month, the year, the minute. She doesn’t tell him that soon, so soon will mark ten years since she was thrown at the mercy of the universe, cruel and unforgiving.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I lied. I lied so much, to everyone. I went to school and I lied and I worked under the table to pay the rent in our—my little shithole of an apartment, and it worked, for years. And then I graduated high school.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She has to remember to breathe. The words taste acrid and unfamiliar.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And I realized I didn’t know my social security number. I didn’t have a birth certificate. I’m not even sure </span>
  <em>
    <span>where</span>
  </em>
  <span> I was born.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Breathe.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And then bills started coming to my house. Bills in my name, for credit cards I didn’t open. And I realized my parents must still be out there, somewhere, and they knew more about me than I knew about myself. And then one day, there stopped being any new charges.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She still doesn’t know if they’re dead.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“But the cards were open and a couple new ones got sent to my address and I was so hungry and I could barely pay rent,” and her body is shaking but she can’t stop now, “and then the landlord said it was going up. I’d been there illegally the whole time anyway and I had to eat and I just—” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her chest hurts and everything feels so far away.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I used the cards for food, sometimes. Just when my jobs couldn’t cover it. And then I started working for Plutt. I thought maybe if I worked hard enough, I could go to school and then I’d make enough money to pay off everything. But I couldn’t get student loans without proof of citizenship. And Plutt said he could help. I should’ve known better.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Rey—”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Stop.” It’s the first word he’s uttered in what feels like a century and she can’t bear to hear it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The sheet over her chest is wrinkled where she grips it like a lifeline. She’s been talking for so long it feels like years and she can’t take it much longer so she speeds through the rest, desperate to be free of the burden she’s carried for a decade.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“He offered me the money if I was willing to take on more side projects at the garage. He called it an ‘advance,’ except I could never catch up. I was breaking down cars without license plates for months before I realized he’d never let me go.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She’s almost done, she can feel the end near, so close, she can get through this without crying, she </span>
  <em>
    <span>can.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And then my rent went up again. Doubled.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Out of the corner of her eye, she can see his fists, clenching and unclenching, knuckles white, a mirror of her own.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’ve wanted to die for a long time. But I just kept thinking I’d get out of it.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She picks at a thread in the sheet, twining it around her finger until it hurts.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And then I didn’t. I got kicked out of school for missing tuition payments when I refused to take more money from Plutt. I got kicked out of my par—my apartment for missing rent. So I was homeless, in debt, working for a crook with no end in sight. And that’s how it was, for a while.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>One more breath.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And then I met you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>————</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Rey.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She finally, truly looks at him, and the depths of anguish in her eyes nearly drown him. But she allows him to speak her name.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Why are you still alive?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s a loaded question, he knows, especially as the person who will be responsible for her inevitable demise.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But he must know the answer, must know what it is that allowed him to find her, to have her, to keep—</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’ll sound dumb.” She says it into her knees, a whisper. A secret.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Tell me anyway, little one.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The nickname is easy on his tongue now. He tries to keep affection out of his tone. He thinks he might be failing miserably.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She sighs, a wind up.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I couldn’t afford the pills.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She pauses, looks back at him, at his eyebrow quirked in an invitation to continue.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m afraid of heights, and slitting my wrists sounded so messy, and I just...pills seemed the easiest, you know? Simple. Peaceful. I’ve not had a moment’s peace in years.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His chest has never felt so tight.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And then she laughs, a strangled, sharp noise piercing the stillness.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And then I couldn’t afford to buy the fucking pills!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He fears upsetting her more than the trip down memory lane has already done, but he can't help his insatiable desire to know everything about her. He can’t help it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He can’t help it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Rey. Why not just steal them?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Finally, a single tear trails down her cheek. She’s so strong for holding out this long—</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>God damn it, Solo. She’s a </span>
  </em>
  <b>
    <em>thing, </em>
  </b>
  <em>
    <span>get a fucking grip. She doesn’t </span>
  </em>
  <b>
    <em>matter.</em>
  </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>One more tear marks a path down her cheek, and his clenched fist in the sheets is all that keeps him from brushing it away.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“If I couldn’t own a thing in life, I at least wanted an honest death. It sounds so fucking stupid when I say it out loud but—”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No,” and it appears as though he’s lost control of his voice now too, his mouth operating independently of his well-practiced mind. “It doesn’t sound stupid.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She gives him a quick nod, and then a watery chuckle escapes her. He looks at her again, and he never wants to stop looking.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Anyway, not like it matters now, since you’re going to be the one to do it.”</span>
</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Comments are writing fuel. Thanks guys &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Chapter 11</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you for your patience &lt;3</p><p>Gorgeous new edit by <a href="https://twitter.com/alantieislander?s=21">Allison</a></p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>
    
  </span>
</p><p>
  <span><br/>“...you’re going to be the one to do it.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He has known pain and injury, but her casual acceptance is a unique type of hurt.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’s never known someone so strong.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But she’s right. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her demise will be at his hands, because how could it not?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He knows what he has to do, but does he have the strength to do it?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She lays down against the pillows, sheet up to her chin.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Shivers. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Are you cold?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Are you sure?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He shouldn’t care.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’ve dealt with worse, Ben. Goodnight.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She turns away, a clear dismissal.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His hand aches for her shoulder again, but he forces himself to stand, to collect their dishes, to leave her wrists uncuffed and her body untouched.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He wonders which part of his resolve will break first.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>————</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Only when she can no longer hear his footsteps outside the door does she allow herself to truly cry, full, heaping, agonizing sobs muffled in her pillow.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She wonders if he realizes he is the only one to know her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A sick sense of gratitude consumes her, to know that her story will not die when she does, even if the one carrying it will be the one to kill her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Freedom is not what she expected it to be.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She can’t decide if that’s a bad thing.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>————</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She dreams of a light spilling over her body; she feels the kiss of an angel on her shoulder, light and fleeting, a single touch of warmth in the cold.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her brain is unperturbed by the shuffling sounds swirling around her, writing them off as the flutter of her angels’ wings.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She faintly registers the feeling—not quite safety. More like surety.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There’s only one threat left, and it’s definite. So she rests, not caring if it’s temporary or permanent.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>————</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Rey.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s early, earlier than usual as she rouses to the sound of his voice. Familiar.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Comfor—</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I have to go into the office this week.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s a sudden shatter in the fragility of her existence, torn open by confession, not yet healed.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She shouldn’t care.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She should be </span>
  <em>
    <span>dead </span>
  </em>
  <span>by now, capacity for caring wiped out with a merciful swipe of his blade.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She tries to keep emotion from her voice, hoping anything residual can be blamed on the early hour. The rasp in her throat is the result of exhaustion; it is not borne of the cloying thickness of last nights’ divulgence clinging to the early morning air, nor is it the stinging manifestation of disappointment.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That would be dangerous.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The creeping light of sunrise paints his figure, dark and imposing in a perfectly tailored suit, cuff sitting just at his watch as he hands her a bowl of oatmeal, berries arranged just so.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She wonders if he’s always exuded order, the habit necessitating mess when he can no longer stand neatness.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She shovels in a bite before she can do something ridiculous like ask him to stay.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know when I’ll be back.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her chest tightens. The universe drops out from under her. He might as well have smacked her across the face again—it would hurt less.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It would feel good.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But it’s nothing she hasn’t confronted before.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She forces a smile. Sarcastic. Caustic.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Fine.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I won’t cuff you—”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Great.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He fixes her with a stern look, something akin to barely controlled rage that she refuses to associate with the warmth now collecting in her center, battling the pit of despair.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I left food in the fridge. I,” he pauses, clears his throat. “I’m going to leave the bedroom unlocked.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Now </span>
  <em>
    <span>there’s </span>
  </em>
  <span>a shock, yet another to add to the list of things she never expected.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She opens her mouth to ask </span>
  <em>
    <span>why </span>
  </em>
  <span>but stops the word with another bite. Something tells her the answer to that question remains elusive to them both.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She chews. Stares. Waits for him to leave, waits for the consuming feeling of the simultaneously familiar and anything but.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“If you try anything, I’ll know.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His words are another knife. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What, you don’t want me getting blood all over your cushy prison cell?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t find it funny.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’ll know, Rey.” Her name sounds meaningful from his lips. Heavy. Perceptive. “See you tonight.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Tonight. Oh, that’s—</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Fine. Bye.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His jaw pinches with the weight of the unsaid before he turns away, impeccably pleated pants giving her something to remember when he leaves.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>If these are her final days, the view could be worse.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>————</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Closing the door behind him is one of the hardest things he’s ever done, and he’s watched the light go out of people's eyes beneath his hands.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Perhaps it’s the thought that she’s next that makes him feel like screaming, vomiting, and turning around all at once.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He drives on autopilot, mind reeling, mentally going through his checklist once more.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Windows and doors locked, surveillance and motion detection activated, burner phone on, network secured, sharps hidden, food in the fridge.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>In theory, he has no reason to be anxious.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But that doesn’t stop him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s the first secret he’s kept from Snoke.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’s terrified, a wholly unfamiliar feeling. And he knows, eventually, almost certainly, his secret will be discovered; but even inevitability cannot stop him from trying.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She belongs to him. She’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>his. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Some things just can’t be shared.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He checks the screen of his burner, untraceable even by his colleagues, one more time in the parking lot before exiting his car. She’s asleep again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Just another day at the office, a terrifying weight in his pocket and chest as he enters the building to confront whatever awaits him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>If it requires him in person, it can’t be good. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>————</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She goes back to sleep, her body still catching up from years of chronic deprivation. Digestion alone is exhausting, a consistently full stomach dragging her back into unconsciousness after every meal.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her angel doesn’t return.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And then, for the first time, she awakens in an empty house, unrestrained. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It feels like a test, one she doesn’t know how to pass.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And then, she remembers: she doesn’t have to feel things or think thoughts or confront or contemplate morality. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She just has to take. And so she does.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She takes the bedsheet, wraps it around her like a toga as she pads to the kitchen, creeping slowly, sure he’s going to jump out from behind a corner at any moment.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She takes a bowl from the fridge, something healthy and balanced that she’d have never been able to afford before she found herself kidna—</span>
  <em>
    <span>abducted.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And she climbs, takes a seat atop the kitchen island to eat it, because why not?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Yes, she’s afraid of heights, but at a hint of feeling, any feeling at all, </span>
  <em>
    <span>something</span>
  </em>
  <span> calls to her to remember existence.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>What is she seeking, now? Wrapped in a sheet in a murderer's house, eating his food, waiting for death?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A swoop, barely there, low in her belly as she peeks over the edge, imagines falling—danger. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Being caught.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And then the thought comes unbidden.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Will he ever fuck her again?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Why does she care?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She sits where her hands gripped a cereal spoon, where her neck felt the caress of his blade, where she begged for death, so close she could taste it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It tasted like frosted mini wheats and sweat and sex and surprise.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And she dampens the sheet tucked securely under her ass as she scrapes the bottom of another bowl.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There are exactly enough utensils to get through the day, neatly arranged on the adjacent countertop. And then, she sees it, several feet away. A taunt.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He left her a butter knife. It’s the sharpest thing in the kitchen, possibly enough to split the skin at her wrists. Maybe. Barely.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>If she pressed hard enough, was properly motivated, she could make a mess just to spite him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She chooses not to examine her reluctance to do so, reminds herself that all she has to do is take. Exist. Wait. It’s his job, now.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But still, a mess she makes, her cunt slickening as she replays the memories of the past several days. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>If you try anything, I’ll know.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fuck him. Fuck him and his cryptic ultimatums and his secrecy and his pleading eyes as she showed him what was left of her soul.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fuck him for leaving.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fuck his perfect cock and his hand at her throat, stealing her breath as if he owned her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You’re my whore.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And that, she remembers, is the truth. Her life is no longer her own. She no longer belongs to herself.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I decide what happens for the rest of your life.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And yet he left her here in a gilded cage.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And he left her with at least one decision that is entirely hers to make.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And again, she remembers, she is not here to think about the moral implications of her new life.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She is here to die. The rest is just...stalling.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So she lays back, the sheet spread beneath her as she exposes her body to the light of the kitchen, the marble island cool against her back through the thin fabric.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And she places one hand at her throat, and the other between her legs.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And she thinks about the man who is going to kill her.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>As always, find me on <a href="https://twitter.com/beccastanz?s=21">Twitter</a>! Comments are writing fuel &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Chapter 12</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>She laughs aloud, alone, in an empty house, and wonders how everything could go so wrong and so right all at once.</p><p>The sound of her throaty amusement echoes.</p><p>And she waits.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you all for your patience &lt;3</p><p>I’ve missed these twisted babes so, so much.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Whatever Ben was expecting when he pulled out his burner to check the security cameras, it wasn’t this. It takes his brain a moment to catch up with the impossibility in front of his eyes.</p><p> </p><p>Rey, spread eagled on his fucking kitchen island with two (or three? Is it three? He should’ve gotten the HD cameras, fucking hell) fingers deep in her cunt and—</p><p> </p><p>Fuck.</p><p> </p><p>Her hand is on her throat.</p><p> </p><p>Squeezing.</p><p> </p><p>Is she thinking of him?</p><p> </p><p>He’s struck with a wave of jealousy—is it possible to be jealous of a hand? Of fingers? Of the piece of furniture currently covered in a bedsheet and her body while he sits in an uncomfortable chair so many agonizing miles away?</p><p> </p><p>He hasn’t touched her in days, the vow to himself to leave her alone until he could sort through exactly what his plans are for her becoming harder and harder to follow. And now, this, an enigma on a pedestal of marble and microfiber, entirely unaware, uncaring, euphoric and she brings herself to orgasm.</p><p> </p><p>The knock at his door brings him back to reality.</p><p> </p><p>“Ren?” The nasally voice of Hux travels through the wood. “Snoke has requested you.”</p><p> </p><p>His tone of disdain is a constant. Hux is many things, but subtle is not one of them.</p><p> </p><p>Perhaps that’s why Kylo Ren is Snoke’s number two, and Hux is not.</p><p> </p><p>“Coming,” he shouts in a tone he hopes is intimidating, not colored by the sheer confusion and arousal pumping through his veins in equal measure. He can hardly bear to turn off the screen, especially when he realizes she’s going for round two. </p><p> </p><p>Fuck.</p><p> </p><p>What has he done?</p><p> </p><p>————</p><p> </p><p>She comes three times before exhaustion returns, final orgasm brought by the thrill of dangling her foot over the edge of the island, precarious pleasure.</p><p> </p><p>The afterglow brings a stream of consciousness that she would term...inconvenient.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> This is so wrong why are you thinking of him he’s a rapist he’s a murderer he drugged you and ki—abducted you off of the street— </em>
</p><p> </p><p>But she’s not on the street anymore. She has a bed and a shower and food.</p><p> </p><p>Because of her murderous rapist kidnapper. Her keeper. Until the end.</p><p> </p><p>She washes her arousal soaked hand in the kitchen sink before peeking into the cupboards, full of boring food.</p><p> </p><p>But boring food is still food, still fuel, still sustenance to get her through another day. At the very least, starvation would be an unlikely demise by his hands.</p><p> </p><p>She remembers his misstep with the sandwich, the satisfying thump of her fist in his ribs. She’s weakened from several years of inconsistent meals, but her raw strength, her savagery, her instinct never wavers, and the victory she felt as she stuffed her cheeks with her reclaimed prize was the first burst of pure satisfaction she can recall in years.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Well, that and when she clenched around his— </em>
</p><p> </p><p>He buys in bulk; there are granola bars, individually portioned snacks. He eats for fuel, not fun, she surmises, as she swipes a protein bar from one box, a small bag of nuts from the other, a sachet of granola. Pilfering his stock, small enough amounts that she hopes he doesn’t notice.</p><p> </p><p>She drags the sheet behind her on her journey back to the bedroom and hides her loot under the mattress, just in case he gets any more bright ideas.</p><p> </p><p>Hunger won’t be what kills her.</p><p> </p><p>No.</p><p> </p><p>He’d better not chicken out of doing it himself.</p><p> </p><p>An idle mind drifts; she contemplates the day ahead, barely half over, and she wonders what time he’ll be home.</p><p> </p><p>She could almost pretend that they were a couple, maybe even married, as she putters around the house all day awaiting his return. If she were a housewife, she’d probably be wearing more than a sheet.</p><p> </p><p>She wouldn’t have touched herself on the kitchen island with a hand around her neck, tempting death.</p><p> </p><p>She laughs aloud, alone, in an empty house, and wonders how everything could go so wrong and so right all at once.</p><p> </p><p>The sound of her throaty amusement echoes.</p><p> </p><p>And she waits.</p><p> </p><p>And waits.</p><p> </p><p>And <em> waits. </em></p><p> </p><p>The sky grows dark.</p><p> </p><p>Her eyelids grow heavy.</p><p> </p><p>And still, she is alone.</p><p> </p><p>Loneliness is familiar, always has been, and yet—</p><p> </p><p>Her chest is tight.</p><p> </p><p>He said he’d be back. He <em> said so. </em></p><p> </p><p>What should scare her more? That he wouldn’t return, or that he would?</p><p> </p><p>She repeats it to herself: she’s not here for ethical quandaries, not here for moral contemplation.</p><p> </p><p>She’s here to die. Though she might live a little, first.</p><p> </p><p>Eventually, exhaustion wins out, and she crawls beneath the sheet that only hours ago saw her egregious arousal.</p><p> </p><p>And she sleeps, deeper than she ever thought possible. A surprising lack of unknowns brings comfort.</p><p> </p><p>But that one unknown that remains haunts her dreams.</p><p> </p><p>Will he come back?</p><p> </p><p>Or has she been abandoned yet again?</p><p> </p><p>————</p><p> </p><p>The light wakes her, aggressive in its positivity. A new day barreling toward her with no regard for how it might make her feel.</p><p> </p><p>Her nightstand is empty.</p><p> </p><p>Her heart rate is too high for her lack of wakefulness.</p><p> </p><p>She trips on tangled sheets in her haste to get out of bed, knee banging against the floor as one leg remains caught.</p><p> </p><p>It’ll most certainly bruise.</p><p> </p><p>And she is suddenly nostalgic for other bruises, those nonaccidental and exhilarating.</p><p> </p><p>The kitchen island is no longer empty—the bag of raw oats taking up the center of the marble slab. The jar of peanut butter and squeeze bottle of honey flank the bag as if protecting it.</p><p> </p><p>He must have been here, then. He must have come home.</p><p> </p><p>She must not be worth seeking out, then.</p><p> </p><p>And yet, worthy enough to be kept alive? Her mind reels as she methodically mixes a bowl of oats and water, guessing at a ratio before aggressively shoving the bowl into the microwave. The clang of glass on glass, the sharp snap of the door shutting on her breakfast, little ways to work through feelings she can’t name.</p><p> </p><p>When she takes it out, the oats are watery, nothing like the perfect bowls he’s presented her with.</p><p> </p><p>She eats it anyway, with a spoon of peanut butter and a drizzle of honey and a heap of regrets. Why didn’t she stay awake to see him? Why didn’t she try to escape? Why is she still—</p><p> </p><p>She is confronted with the expanse of another day and near nothing to fill it but waiting. She’s naked in a living room that for all intents and purposes is hers, now. She belongs to him, but his home belongs to her. Her nudity fills the space, unabashed and crude and ruthless and unseen. What is the point of it, of her body, if it’s not being used by him, if it’s not being pushed to its limits, laid bare and stripped for parts? A man-made geyser, gushing.</p><p> </p><p>She licks the bowl clean in the end, because who is here to judge her besides herself? She’s already becoming used to the feeling of a full stomach, as if she never knew hunger at all. Supposedly, food gives you energy, and here she is in excess.</p><p> </p><p>The living room carpet is soft under her toes, and she’s struck with a thought—when is the last time she used her body for something entirely of her own choice? Her limbs have been a vehicle for survival—breaking down cars, darting from place to place, curling up in search of shelter from the elements. Energy was a luxury to be conserved, calories never burned for the sake of it. Movement was precious. Necessary.</p><p> </p><p>But strength was a luxury. Could she be strong, given the time? The resources?</p><p> </p><p>She lays on the carpet, the fibers ticking her back, her ass, her thighs.</p><p> </p><p>And then she does a sit-up. And another. And another after that.</p><p> </p><p>And when she tires of sit-ups, she flips over and digs her fingers into softness and does pushups, surprising herself as she catapults herself up and down and up and down, small breasts just barely brushing the floor as her elbows bend.</p><p> </p><p>It feels—good? Maybe?</p><p> </p><p>Different, at least.</p><p> </p><p>Exhausting, at best.</p><p> </p><p>Time passes faster, and it’s harder to think while she sweats.</p><p> </p><p>And a shower feels better when there’s something to slough off her skin.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> His cum, dripping from her cunt, painting her thighs, load after load and now he’s gone and she is empty and alone again but it’s worse because for a moment she felt— </em>
</p><p> </p><p>She towels off, inspects herself under the light. Her knee is just starting to darken to purple and she laughs at it being the only scrap of color on her entire fucking body, maybe in this entire fucking house, and she remembers the rainbow that she made for him over many days, scattered over her hips and breasts and neck.</p><p> </p><p>And she thinks that she hates him, now. Barely two days without him, and she hates him.</p><p> </p><p>————</p><p> </p><p>Two turns to five.</p><p> </p><p>Five. Fucking. Days.</p><p> </p><p>She eats and she uses her body for pleasure and puts it through pain and wishes she couldn’t remember what it felt like to have the two together. The soreness in her muscles is in all the wrong places, and even that doesn’t last, the burn subsiding as her body acclimates to its new normal.</p><p> </p><p>On day five, it strikes her that she hasn’t even thought to test if all the doors and windows are really locked, and she feels like a fool.</p><p> </p><p>Checking takes ten minutes, and they are indeed all locked. And she pretends not to know why she didn’t check sooner.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> He has to come back— </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Every night, she stays awake longer, waiting, wishing—for what, she refuses to know. But she waits and wishes all the same, and every night she misses him—misses his arrival, the arrival she’s sure occurred because there is always breakfast on the island, placed directly in the center. She doesn’t repeat her dangerous feat of masturbatory inquisitiveness on furniture made for eating—but soon the carpet knows the drip of her arousal, and she stains the bed, and the shower sometimes washes away her shame and exaltation in one fell swoop.</p><p> </p><p>Her hatred grows. How dare he? How <em> fucking </em> dare he, she thinks as she works up a sweat and tries not to think of him licking it from her body before biting down where his tongue has been. How dare he steal her and rape her and listen to her and feed her and kiss her and pretend to understand her and then fucking <em> leave. </em></p><p> </p><p>She could kill him for it, for this cacophony in her mind, her body, her very soul (if she has one left, because there very well may be a void where a normal person’s soul resides, because maybe he fucked it out of her when he bent her over the counter with a knife at her throat and she didn’t even try to get away).</p><p> </p><p>Loneliness is familiar, sure.</p><p> </p><p>But familiar does not mean bearable.</p><p> </p><p>And on the sixth night she goes to bed seething, and she wakes with metal at her neck and hardness at her hip and a whisper in her ear.</p><p> </p><p>“Hello, little one.”</p><p> </p><p>And her blood runs hot with fury.</p><p> </p><p><em> Only </em>fury.</p><p><br/>
<br/>
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  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Are you guys still with me? 👀 I welcome your thoughts, theories, or general keysmashes if those are more your vibe 😅❤️</p><p>Thank you so, so much for reading! Cheers to kicking writer’s block in the butt 🥰</p><p>As always, I’m on <a href="https://twitter.com/beccastanz?s=21">Twitter</a>!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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